All That Is (27 page)

He came back to where they were lying near the weathered palings.

“The water’s warm,” he said.

“You always say that.”

“It’s quite warm.”

“Brrr,” Anet said.

“Come in and see.”

“Anet, you go.”

“I’m afraid of the waves.”

“Those are no waves, those are just swells. Come on, I’ll go in, too. Philip almost drowned me last summer.”

“How?”

“In some real waves. They’re not that big today. Come on, let’s go in.”

The water was chilly at first. Anet stood in it unwilling but Christine went in and she followed, reluctantly walking deeper. The bottom was smooth. They passed the low line of waves and into the water beyond, where the swells lifted them gently. They swam without speaking, just their heads above the water, rising and falling. The sky seemed to smooth all feelings. Twice in the weeks past Anet had remarked to him after some jot of advice, “You’re not my father,” and he had felt the sting, but now she smiled at him, not in warmth but satisfaction.

“Well?” he said to her.

“I love it,” she replied.

They came out as a trio, out of breath and smiling. Anet walked ahead of them, lithe and striding, running her fingers through her hair to straighten it out. She sat down close to Christine, their knees almost touching, and leaned against her in happiness.

She had made some friends, among them a girl named Sophie, who was self-possessed and had wavy blond hair. She was the daughter of a psychiatrist. On a rainy day they had sat, the four of them, playing hearts. Sophie had taken off an earring and was examining it as the play went around the table. When it came to her she sloughed a low spade.

“You made a mistake,” Bowman commented helpfully.

“Did I?” she said. She was practicing for life.

She didn’t bother to pick up the badly played card, but then almost patiently took it back and played another. Christine admired her aplomb and the dark-red lipstick she used, until the night Anet went to the movies with her and didn’t come back until after midnight. Christine had waited concerned, watching television. She finally heard the door close in the kitchen.

“Anet?” she called.

“Yes.”

“Where’ve you been? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“Where’ve you been? The movie let out hours ago.”

“We didn’t go to the movie,” Anet said.

Bowman felt he should not be listening. He went into the kitchen but could still hear them.

“You said you were going to the movies.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What
did
you do?”

“We walked.”

“You walked? Where?”

“Just on the street.”

Christine’s waiting had made her nerves jagged, and there was something resistant in Anet’s voice.

“Have you had anything to drink?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Never mind why I ask. Have you?”

There was silence.

“Have you been smoking? Grass?”

“I had a glass of wine.”

“Where were you drinking? It’s against the law.”

“It’s not against the law in Europe.”

“This isn’t Europe. Where were you? Who were you with?”

“We were with some friends of Sophie’s.”

“Boys.”

“Yes.”

She was speaking in a lower voice.

“Well, who are they? What are their names?”

“Brad.”

“Brad who?”

“I don’t know his other name.”

“Who was the other boy?”

“I don’t know,” Anet said.

“You don’t know their names.”

“Sophie does,” Anet said.

Her voice had begun to waver.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you crying about?” Christine repeated.

“I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t!”

“Anet!” Christine called.

She had left the room. After a few moments Christine came into the kitchen.

“I could hear it all,” Bowman said.

Christine was clearly disturbed.

“It’s my worst nightmare,” she said.

“She seemed very forthcoming. It didn’t sound like anything much.”

“Why is she doing this?”

“She’s not really doing anything. They do meet boys.”

“How do you know?”

“What does that mean, how do I know?”

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“No,” he said.

The front door slammed. Christine closed her eyes and put her forefingers over them to soothe them.

“Do you know I’m afraid I’m going to hear a car start. Darling, please. Would you go out and make her come in? I’m just too keyed up to.”

Bowman said nothing, but after a few moments he went outside in the darkness. Finally he made her out past the end of the driveway. She had heard him coming but didn’t turn. He had no confidence in what he was doing.

“Anet,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He waited.

“I don’t really have much say in this,” he said, “but I think it probably amounts to less than it seems.”

She seemed not to be listening.

“Perhaps you could just give her a call next time, say everything’s fine, you’ll be a little late. Could you do that?”

She wouldn’t reply. She was watching something white moving along the dark tops of the far-off trees. It went along and then seemed to turn somehow and disappear. Almost immediately it came back higher.

“It’s a heron,” he said.

As they watched, it went towards the solid black trees and then up through an opening in the topmost branches, into the night sky.

“That was a heron?” she said.

“You could see its neck.”

“I didn’t think they flew at night.”

“I guess they do.”

“Heron gone,” she said.

He glanced at her to see if she’d intended the pun but couldn’t tell. His fear of her had lessened and, saying nothing further, he followed her back towards the house.

On an afternoon that fall, Christine called him. Her voice was filled with excitement.

“Philip?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“The most wonderful thing. I found the house.”

“What house?”

“I found a perfect house, the one you’ve been looking for. I knew it the minute I saw it. It’s an old house, not terribly big, but it has four bedrooms, and it’s on a pond, part of a pond. There’s an old couple who’ve owned it for thirty years. They haven’t listed it, but they’re interested in selling.”

“How did you find it?”

“Evelyn knew about it. She knows everything that’s going on.”

“How much is it?”

“Only a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Is that all? I’ll take it,” he said airily.

“No, but let me show it to you this weekend. You have to see it.”

The pond could not be seen from the road. It was down below. There was a long dirt driveway that appeared to end between two ancient trees. It was a clear October morning. As they drove up, suddenly there was the house. He would never forget the first sight of it, the feeling of familiarity he immediately had though he’d had no idea of what to expect. It was a beautiful old house, like a farmhouse but in isolation near the pond. They entered through the kitchen door across a narrow porch. The kitchen itself was a large square room with open shelves and a pantry in what had been a closet. The main bedroom was downstairs. There were three small bedrooms above. The stairway banister, he noticed, was plain unfinished pine worn smooth by hands. The floorboards were wide and the windows also.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a nice house.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, it’s really something special.”

The walls and ceiling were in good condition. There were no leak stains or cracks. Two of the small bedrooms he thought could be combined.

The view from upstairs was of two good-sized houses across the water, half-hidden in trees.

“Does it have heat?” he said.

“Yes. There’s a half basement with a furnace.”

They walked outside and down to the pond where, not far out, the dim outline of a sunken rowboat could be seen.

“There’s how much land, did you say?”

“There’s all this. The property goes to the road. It’s a little over an acre.”

“One twenty,” he said.

“That’s all. That’s a very good price.”

“Well, I think I’ll have to buy it.”

“I’m so happy! I knew you’d want it.”

“It’s going to be very nice living here. We could even get married.”

“Yes, we could.”

“Is that an acceptance?”

“I would have to get a divorce.”

“Why don’t we get married and get the divorce later?”

“And we could live in jail,” she said. “That would be all right.”

He bought the house, including some furnishings, for $120,000. He bought it in both their names, a country house that was ideal, big enough to have a guest or two occasionally, perfectly located, a house unto itself.

The bank in Bridgehampton took a generous view of his assets and gave him a mortgage of $65,000. He had some difficulties coming up with the difference. He sold most of the stocks he owned and borrowed $8,000 on a line of credit.

They closed the first week in December and moved in that very day carrying two upholstered chairs bought from an antiques—really, used
furniture—dealer in Southampton. They were very happy. That night they lit a fire and made some supper. They drank a bottle of wine and while listening to music, part of another. A dreamed-of night, their first in the house. In bed she slipped the nightgown over her head and let it fall to the floor. She lay in his arms, it was like a wedding night. He took her arm and pressed his lips to the inside of her elbow in a long fervent kiss.

Soon after came Christmas. Anet had gone to Athens to be with her father. The house as yet had little furniture, only a sofa, some chairs, two tables, and a bed. The windows had neither shades nor curtains, and it would have been stark to be there for the holidays, even with a tree. In the city, the streets were alive. It was Christmas in New York, crowds hurrying home in the early darkness, captains of the Salvation Army ringing their bells, St. Patrick’s, the brilliant theater of the great store windows, mansions of plenty, the prosperous-looking people. They were playing “Good King Wenceslas,” bartenders were wearing reindeer antlers—Christmas of the Western world, as in Berlin before the war, the deep green forests of Slovakia, Paris, Dickens’ London.

There was a party at Baum’s. Bowman hadn’t been in the apartment for a long time. As he came in with Christine and a man in a white jacket took their coats, he thought back to having been there the first time with Vivian in her confident young naïveté.

“Philip, it’s so good to see you,” Diana greeted him.

“This is Christine Vassilaros,” he said.

“Hello,” Diana said taking Christine’s hand in hers. “Please come in.”

The room was crowded. Diana was paying special attention to Christine, no doubt having heard about her. Christine had a daughter, she learned, and asked,

“How old is she?”

“She’s sixteen.”

“She must be a beauty,” Diana said with sincerity. “Our son, Julian, is in law school at Michigan. He refused to go to Harvard. It was elitist. I felt like killing him.”

“Do you want a cigar?” Baum asked Bowman.

“No, thanks.”

“These are really fine. They’re Cuban. Take one, smoke it later. I’ve
started smoking cigars. One a day. I like to sit and smoke one after dinner. A cigar should touch your lips exactly twenty-two times, anyway that’s what someone told me. Otherwise, as Cheever said, hick. Actually, he was talking about how to hold a cigar properly. I forget how that was.”

“My one regret,” Diana said to Christine, “is that we didn’t have more children. I wish we had three or four.”

“Four is a lot.”

“The happiest days of my life were when Julian was a little boy. Nothing really compares with that. You’re fortunate,” she told Christine, “you can still have children. That’s the whole point of it, it really is. Now we’re free, more or less. We go to Italy. It’s beautiful, but then I think of the love of a little boy.”

“I love Italy,” Baum said. “The people. You know, I call my Italian colleague and his secretary answers the phone—his assistant, I should say. Roberto! It’s wonderful to talk to you! You should be in Rome, it’s such a beautiful day, the sun is shining, you should be here! There’s nobody like them.”

“Why do you call her his assistant?” Diana asked.

“His secretary, then.”

“They’re not all like that. She’s a bit of a songbird. Eduardo is nothing like that. You talk to him and he says, hello, I feel terrible, the world is a mess. He’s the publisher.”

Other guests were coming in. Diana left to greet them. Baum stayed to talk on with Christine, he liked her looks. After the party, he asked his wife,

“What did you think of Philip’s new girlfriend?”

“Is she new?”

“Well, not exactly new but certainly not old.”

“No, she’s quite a bit younger.”

“It’s made him a bit younger.”

“Yes, that’s the general belief,” Diana said.

That spring Beatrice Bowman died. She had been weak and disoriented for a long time. She thought her son was someone else, and his visits had long periods of silence when she seemed to at least be aware of his
company while he sat near her and read. To the world she knew, to the few friends who had by then drifted away, to everyone except himself and Dorothy, it was no longer important that she live. What had been her life, the people she knew and the deep pool of memory and knowing, had vanished or dried up and fallen apart. Or so it seemed when she could think about it. She would not have wanted to go on, but she had not been able to prevent it. Outwardly she was still handsome if baffled, and the lines in her face were gentle. She had many times said a final good-bye.

In contrast to her normal agitation, she died calmly. She simply did not wake one morning. Perhaps she had known something the night before, some not quite familiar sadness, a lessening of strength. Except for not breathing, one sleep was indistinguishable from the other.

She left no instructions. Bowman agreed with Dorothy that she should be cremated, and together they went to the funeral home to arrange for it. They asked for the casket to be open, they both wanted to see her for a last time. In the silent room, there his mother lay. They had done her hair and put some light cosmetic on her lips and cheek. He bent and kissed her brow. It seemed indecent. Some quality in her that he knew, not merely life, had been erased.