Promises (46 page)

From somewhere, piped into the funeral parlor, came lugubrious music intended to be sacred. An equally lugubrious
man appeared, to intone and spoil the majestic poetry of the psalms.

Megan wept. Perhaps she had all along known a deeper disillusionment than either of the other two had, thought Margaret. For her, who was more mature than they, it would have been possible to feel at the very start a stronger bitterness and outrage.

“You’re not crying, Mom?” Megan whispered.

“Darling, I’m crying inside.”

Crying … For the day we bought my wedding ring, the times we went to the opera in New York, for your compassion when I had the miscarriage, for the days we pushed the strollers down our street.

You wretched woman, you thief. You came out of nowhere and you destroyed a family. But you would be surprised to know that his thoughts on that last morning were not at all of you, no, not at all of you.

And she thought, as the man droned on, I wonder what he would have said to me there in the parking lot if I had stayed to listen? Had he perhaps come to tell me that he wanted to die? Or had he been asking me to take him back? I doubt it, what with that other child on the way. But even if he had, I would have told him it is far, far too late.

How strange it is to remember, after you have stopped caring, how terribly you can care when you are young. It is everything to you, everything, more than life. I think of that day—it is so long since I thought of it—when Isabella came to fit my wedding dress, and I was afraid I might be losing Adam. I’m only thankful that she’s not here to see this now.

Everyone stood as they moved to take the coffin out. Behind walked Randi. And this time Margaret looked
fully, without avoidance, into her face. For you, she said to herself, I feel nothing but contempt. For the poor life growing in you, though, I feel a pity that you probably wouldn’t even understand. Poor, unknowing little creature, ready soon to be born, another American child who, for whatever the reason, will have no father. It seems to be the story of our country in this crazy time.

Out of dimness they emerged into noon glare, where stood the hearse like an ominous black beetle about to crawl. At sight of it tears rose to clog Margaret’s throat and stand burning in her eyes.

“Come,” Nina said gently, pulling at her arm.

“No, wait.”

They were not going to the cemetery. Friends and cousins, Nina, Fred, and Stephen, every one were all agreed that in the circumstances it would be unwise. For Randi had bought a grave somewhere and had taken charge.

So they waited, Margaret and her children, with an awful solemnity upon them, until the coffin was placed and the small cortege moved away. Margaret’s head was swimming. And raising her hand in the semblance of a little wave, she whispered, “Good-bye, Adam.”

A
few months later, in Stephen Larkin’s office, the desk was clear of the paper that usually awaited Margaret’s visits, the questionnaires and replies, the proposals and denials, the whole paraphernalia of divorce. Now all that was finished, and the only paper that lay there was the receipt for Adam Crane’s insurance.

“I’ve been thinking about that baby,” Margaret said. “Do you think I should—”

“No,” said Stephen, so decidedly that she was surprised. “The money belongs to your children. Her behavior was irresponsible, and there’s no reason why you should take responsibility for it.”

“It’s a nice sum, but a dreadful way to receive it.”

“Life insurance money is never what you might call happy money.”

“Well, it does mean that I can pay off my debts. The rest will be safely put away.”

“I remember that at one time you wanted to go to medical school.”

“Ah, yes,” she said ruefully, “that was a long, long time ago.”

“Not so long. You’re still a young woman.”

“Stephen, I’m forty-one.”

He smiled. “Where’ve you been? Your calendar is out of date. That’s young these days.”

It was odd that this remark should occur on the first day when, after so long, she actually did feel rested, clearheaded, and younger. She was aware, too, that she looked it. Her dress was black linen, a gift from Nina along with a pair of “typically Nina” emerald-colored sandals. She had worn it for the first time today.

“So dressed up to go to a lawyer’s office?” Julie remarked, to which Margaret, not making much sense, had answered vaguely, “It’s in town.”

What actually had she been thinking of when she pinned the black velvet bow at the back of her head? Incredibly, she had been regretting the fact that this was to be her last visit to this office. Poignantly, she remembered her first one two years ago when, mortally wounded and unable to control herself, she had sat there weeping with her head in her hands. She had been such a mess. And he had been so patient. She wondered whether he ever thought about that or, for that matter, ever thought much about her at all. At Fred’s Christmas party there had been that subtle appraisal from across the table. And then, too, whenever they met in the park or at the baseball diamond …

But a man’s glance could, and usually did, mean nothing more than a moment’s worth of approval. Anyway, what difference did it make? She was still in recovery, in limbo, an almost-divorcée, and for the last three months a widow.

Stephen got up and crossed the room. “I was in a bookstore the other day,” he said, handing Margaret a heavy package, “and I saw something you might like.”

A large illustrated volume contained a history of medicine. And flipping through the pages, from Nefertiti holding a mandrake root, to the Black Death and then the first X-ray photographs, Margaret was instantly delighted.

“It’s gorgeous! What a gorgeous book!”

“I thought at first that it might be only another coffee-table gift, but when I looked at the text I was impressed.”

“How nice of you!” she exclaimed. “I really, really love it.”

Stephen was pleased. “I can tell that you do. I hope it will inspire you. If you really love medicine, Margaret, you should go for it,” he said, adding quickly, “Unless you have other plans?”

“My children,” she replied at once. “They’re doing better now, much better, as you know. But their father’s death was terrible, on top of everything else, and the wounds are far from healed.”

“They never will be, entirely. They’ll stop aching, though. That much I know for sure.”

“I still think of what you told us that night about your mother. I knew then why you had been able to read my mind when I first came to you. Oh, I needed help so badly! I was drowning. Maybe I would have drowned if so many wonderful people hadn’t helped me, teachers and friends, my cousins and Fred. And you, Stephen. I’ll never forget what I owe to people.”

There was a pause, as though she were about to say more, or as though he were, or as if each were waiting
for the other. But the seconds passed. And so she stood up, gave him her hand, and said, “It’s an unusual ending to the case, isn’t it? All those papers, all those documents you drew up, just to be thrown away. And now we’ve come to the end.”

“We’re not going to say good-bye, you know. We’re still neighbors.”

They shook hands. Faintly disturbed, she went outside and got into the car. Their relationship puzzled her. It had progressed beyond the lawyer-client one to a kind of pleasant friendship, half professional and half not. In a queer way she was embarrassed by it; she felt self-conscious in his presence, and yet she looked forward to his presence. Confused by her own thoughts, she drove past the bank where she was to deposit the insurance check and had to drive around the block again.

Some days later Margaret went to see Fred. It was Saturday, and she had told him to expect her. In her purse was her repayment of his loan, and the pleasure of being free of debt was something she did not want to postpone.

“I would like to insist that you take this check back,” he told her. “You know I want to make a gift to Megan. After all, I knew her before she was born.”

“I understand. But we’ve been through all that before, haven’t we?”

“You’re as stubborn as a mule.” He laughed. “That’s why I’m not even trying.”

They sat down under the trees, which now, in late August, were still in lush leafage. The air thrummed with the drowsy, continuous chirp of cicadas. Yet the
earth had begun its tilt away from the sun, and there was in the angle of light a presage of fall.

This awareness of season, of time, of some imminent change—but what change?—increased the uneasiness that she had lately, and for an unknown reason, been feeling.

Fred studied her. “You’re looking like your old self again, dressing up, fancy green shoes—that’s great. No more divorce papers, all that behind you.”

“Yes, everything’s over. No more lawyers.”

Fred was still studying her. She expected him to say something, but he did not. And feeling that queer awkwardness, that disturbance almost ominous, that sense of some unknown, pending change, she continued, “Stephen handled the case very well, as far as it went. You made a good choice for me.”

“I hoped so.”

Then suddenly she realized that Fred was nervous. He stood up, set Jimmy, who had been on the bench beside him, onto the ground, and walked over to pull a weed out of the rosebed.

“Yes,” he repeated. “I hoped so. He’s an attractive man. Sensitive. I was very touched by his story about his family.”

“I was too.”

“He’s moving, you know.”

She felt a small shock. “I didn’t know. Where to?”

“I haven’t spoken to him. The agent told me he hasn’t renewed his lease.”

“Oh. Perhaps he only wants a larger place, unless—” And now she made her tone very light, very casual, remarking, “Do you suppose he’s going to be married?”

“I’ve no idea. Why? Does it matter to you?”

She raised her eyebrows as if in surprise at the question. “Why on earth should it matter to me?”

“Don’t be annoyed,” he said. “It matters awfully to me. You know I have always loved you, Margaret.”

Extremely agitated, she wasn’t ready for anything more urgent than packing Megan off to college, for going back to work, for wiping Adam and their disaster out of her mind.

“Please,” she said brokenly as she stood up, “please.”

There he waited, flushed and trembling before her. And looking into his broad, healthy, not unhandsome face, a benign, familiar face now at this moment filled with an anxious pleading, she, too, was overcome with love—though of a different kind.

He put his arms around her. Her head went to his shoulder, he was kissing her hair and her neck, kissing and holding her.

“I can make you so happy, Margaret. We know each other so well. And your children will be happy. That should matter to you too.”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured, crying.

He raised her head, asking gently, “Why are you crying?”

“It’s just that you’re so good, and I can’t …”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t answer, or even think.” She tried to smile. “Maybe it’s only that I’m not back to normal yet. Maybe I’m crying because I’m starting to relax. They say people do when they’re finally past the worst. I really have hardly cried, Fred, in all this time. Hardly ever.”

“Don’t apologize.” He kissed her lips, softly.

“I’m not ready.” She faltered. “I have to get Megan off to school.”

“I won’t press you. But when you are ready? Will you care?”

“I care now, Fred. I do.”

Whether he was satisfied with that or not, he let her go, and in a state of some distress, she drove home.

“Stephen phoned,” announced Danny. “He wants to take you to dinner.”

“Oh, all of us?”

“No, only you. I asked him whether I could come, and he said no.”

“Dan, you didn’t ask him!”

“Why not? He’s my friend. He wants you to call him back. He said something about the Hotel Bradley.”

A few hours later she was sitting with Stephen in the dining room that she had not entered since the night of the office party years before. Am I always to be reminded of these things, she wondered, or will time eventually fade them?

“This was a last-minute invitation, and I apologize,” said Stephen. “I usually do have better manners. I really do.”

Their small table was in an alcove near the window. The sky had clouded over so that the view was dismal, and in contrast the room, with its ruby-colored hangings, and the table, with its pot of cornflowers, was snug. She felt a little thrill of pleasure. It was as if she were expecting a surprise. This was her first time at a table with him except for the time at Fred’s house, and then there had been a crowd.

“Dan told me you were at Fred’s today,” he said.

“I repaid his loan. It was a good feeling.”

“He’s a very fine man, Fred is.”

“Yes, I’ve known him forever.”

“A family friend.”

“Or practically a cousin, like Gil. You remember Gil.”

She was prattling. What difference was it whether or not he remembered Gil? Yet she knew why she was prattling: It was to emphasize that Fred was no more than a cousin, a family connection. Nothing more.

“I remember Gil. I have one of those memories that photograph people, a politician’s memory, and no credit to me. He is a simple man, I thought, without airs. I liked him.”