Random Hearts (4 page)

He groaned and looked up at Harvey, whose eyes continued to
focus on the window behind him.

"Odd what a little white stuff will do." He
gathered up the papers and went into the outer office where the staff was in
various stages of preparation to brave the blizzard. He had it in his mind to
persuade them to stay, but even that last shred of optimism was exploded when a
white-faced young woman ducked her head into the office.

"Don't go over Fourteenth Street," she cried with
a touch of hysteria in her voice. He recognized her from another congressman's
office across the hall. Before anyone could ask for a calmer explanation, she
rattled off the details.

"A plane crashed. Out of National Airport. It sheared off the tops of cars on the Fourteenth Street Bridge and crashed into the Potomac!"

Before she had finished, someone turned on the television
set, and an announcer confirmed what the woman had said, although there were no
pictures from the scene.

"Seven thirty-seven. A big bird," Harvey muttered.

As in all disasters, Edward knew that thinking immediately
of loved ones was perfectly natural. A brief panic seized him until he
remembered that Lily had left from Dulles.

"Flight ninety. Southair heading for Miami..."
the announcer said, which was enough to calm his fears and leave him only to
face the obvious, which was that there was no way to hold people in tow now.
The uncommon event had once and for all ruled out the possibility of any useful
labor for the day.

"How many were killed?" one of the girls asked.

"There were eighty-four in all. They think only four
survived," someone said. He went back into his own office, slamming the
door. Of course it was a terrible tragedy, but it had little to do with him.

Before she opened her eyes, at the very moment of
consciousness, Vivien knew by the alteration of familiar sounds that the snow
was already thick on the ground. It aroused pleasant memories of shivery
mornings in her parents' house in Vermont when she had also known
instinctively, before she pulled the shades, that a white quilt had settled on
the landscape.

Not wanting to disturb Orson, she slipped on a robe and
moved swiftly to the kitchen bay window, through which she could see the
garden, beautiful and serene under its crystalline white coat. Rubbing his
eyes, Ben came in behind her, squinting into the whiteness.

"Snow," she said, embracing him. "Glorious
snow."

Hamster, their poodle, stretched and wagged his tail. He
had been Orson's Christmas present to Ben two years before.

"Are you in for a surprise, hound!" She laughed,
opened the door, and watched a hesitant Hamster sniff at the white flakes.
Pushing his rear, she edged him out the door where he was soon thrashing about,
leaving paw marks and yellow dribbles in the snow.

"We'll make a snowman later," she said to Ben,
filling a bowl with dry Cream of Wheat and mixing it with water from the
Instant-Hot.

"No kindergarten, Mommy?" Ben asked, climbing on
a chair, the blue of his eyes enlarged by the brightness. No sense fighting the
snow today, she decided, feeling a faint flush of anxiety when she remembered
Orson's trip.

The snow meant other complications as well. She had planned
to shop in town.

"No way," she said, putting the bowl, brimming
with honey, on the table in front of Ben.

"A big snowman?"

"As big as we can make it."

One thing about Vermonters, she thought, they knew all
about snow. Today's was dry and heavy, perfect for snow sculpture. Vermonters
knew how to live with snow, how to cope with it and enjoy it. Not like these
prissy southerners. Snow destroyed their equilibrium. She made herself a cup of
instant coffee and warmed her hands on the cup.

From the kitchen window, the view could have been a Vermont scene. A thick stand of evergreens edged the large expanse of lawn. The snow had
already obliterated the bounds of her vegetable garden and coated the low
shrubs into unidentifiable shapes.

Orson came in, wearing a flannel robe. She rose from the
table and made him a cup of coffee, then looked out the window.

"Reminds me of our neck of the woods," she said.
He nodded, his eyes squinting into the brightness.

"Think they'll fly?" she asked.

"Of course."

Orson had been raised in Newton, a suburb of Boston, but his memories were not as sentimental. His parents had divorced when he was
still in his teens, and his mother had shipped him off to boarding schools
while she lived most of the time with a new husband in Palm Springs, California.

"We're going to make a snowman," Ben said,
dripping Cream of Wheat on his chin.

"If we make it solid enough, maybe it will still be
here when Daddy comes home from Paris."

"You can never tell about Washington weather. In one
day, all of it could melt," Orson said.

"In Vermont you could build a snowman and be sure it
was standing until April."

"They build things to last up there," he mimicked
with tight lips and a twang. Compared to his early life, hers had been ...
well, uncomplicated: loving parents, a clap-board house in a town where her dad
was the only pharmacist. Doc's daughter, she was. Even now when she visited
they called her Doc's daughter.

"Practical solid people," she said, "corny
and wonderful." The snow had unleashed memories.

"Like us."

She was not sure how he meant that, but she let it pass.
His humor was often wry in the morning.

"Will they take you to Maxim's?" she asked.

"I suppose," he said, but he seemed vague and
distracted.

"Give me Paris in the spring," she said. "We
had a great time in Paris. Maybe you'll get a chance to go again in the spring.
Then you can take me."

"Maybe."

"Me, too?" Ben piped.

"It's not for kids," Vivien said, touching his
face. "It's for lovers," she giggled.

"Yuk," Ben said.

When she turned toward the window again, Orson had already
gone back to the bedroom. She followed him.

"Did you find the shirts?" she asked, removing
her robe and nightgown, and slipping on jeans and a blouse.

"Yes."

One of his Brahmin moods, she decided. She had learned that
the best way to deal with them was to ignore them. His mind, when it
concentrated on a problem, often made him seem fuzzy and disconcerted to those
around him. Coming out of her bedroom she went to Ben's and helped him dress in
boots and a snowsuit. For good measure she tied a scarf around his neck and
pulled his woolen hat over his forehead. Then she put a shovel in his hands and
sent him into the garden.

"You start. When Daddy leaves, I'll be out to help
you." She watched as he frolicked in the snow. His first act was to throw
a snowball at Hamster. Watching them made her feel lighthearted and joyful.

"God, snow makes me feel good," she said when
Orson came out of the shower. She looked at him and smiled. "I wish you
could stay home and play with us."

"Duty calls," he muttered, turning away.

"Sure you've got everything you need?" she asked.
He had packed himself the night before.

"I'm sure."

She could never fault his self-reliance, and she was proud
of him for that, and for his brains and good looks as well. A take-charge man,
her mother had called him from the beginning. There was never any doubt that
Orson Simpson was going places, although sometimes she did feel slightly
subservient. Not that he flaunted his surety. Unlike her, he simply had
definite ideas about things. She was more of a muller, more of a Vermonter. It
was a trait that mimicked being indecisive, which she did not feel she was.

If she felt on occasion a sense of deficiency, it came
strictly from unsuitable comparisons, which she quickly rationalized in her
no-nonsense New England manner. Being a wife and mother was a full-time job.
She was not one of those women pressured to pursue a career, although she had
been doing very nicely as a secretary when Orson was just getting started, an
honorable profession with good wages. What jobs were around for English majors?
Someday she would go back to school and take her master's, and maybe a Ph.D.

Meanwhile, she would concentrate on being a good wife and
mother, like her own mom. Only she would not let Ben be an only child. If there
was any serious ripple in her normal tranquillity, it was on that subject.

"Not yet," Orson had told her. "Give Ben a
chance to be an entity."

An entity. It seemed a strange word to describe a child.
But she did not wish to be a nag about it. Nothing worse than a nag.

She began to make their bed and tidy up.

"I'm leaving three hundred in cash," he said,
counting out the money on the bureau, "just in case." He had always
handled their finances, although she had her own checking account from which she
managed to squirrel away extra money. Actually, she had saved nearly ten
thousand dollars—hers to use as she wished.

"It's only four days," she said. "With all
this snow, what's there to spend it on?"

"You'll figure something out," he said lightly.
When it came to anything but decorating the house, Vivien was not much of a
spender. Sometimes such complacency worried her. Perhaps she was too content in
the little niche she had carved for herself. Yet, in another age, contentment
had been a goal. Surely she should not feel guilty about being content.

"You'll want to call someone in to shovel the snow.
Who knows what they'll charge? Maybe you'll need to get meals delivered. I'd
rather anticipate."

At times he had criticized her lack of anticipation—like
failing to take her car keys out of her bag until she got into the car. His
reaction was always mild admonishment. Sometimes she did it on purpose just to
get him to react.

"You needn't worry," she said gently, watching
him knot his tie in the mirror and pinch it just under the knot. She also liked
the deliberate ways in which he did things.

"And remember to lock the doors at night." That
was always his special task, the final lockup, seeing to it that they were safe
and snug. He tucked his shirttails into the belt that sheathed his tight slim
waist. He took good care of his body, jogging every day.

"I can just see you running down the Champs
Elysées."

He laughed.

"Where will you stay?" she asked. "George
Cinq?"

"Not sure."

"You have no reservations?"

"I'll know when I get there. The clients will meet me
at DeGaulle."

It sounded so exotic, and for a moment as she made the bed,
it made her feel dull and dowdy to be doing something so prosaic.

"If you go again in the spring, will you take
me?" she asked again.

"Sure," he said.

She came up behind him and put her arms around him. "Paris in the spring. How lovely."

"The perpetual romantic," he mocked lightly.

"I thought I was the practical Vermonter."

"A strange mixture." He laughed and unhooked her
arms. She had wanted to cross the space between their beds last night, but he
had stayed up late in his study and by the time he had come to bed she had
drifted off. And in the morning she hadn't the heart to wake him. It troubled
her sometimes that between them there was not much to the physical thing,
although when it did occur it was dutiful and gentle. She supposed it was a
sign of their maturity and intelligence not to invest it with too much
importance. Besides, they were living in an age when sexuality was grossly exaggerated,
making it seem that it was the prime factor in a marriage, which was absurd. It
was simply not an issue between them.

"If there are any problems, just call Miss
Sparks."

"There won't be any."

"Last time I was away, the heating unit went
out."

"You know how I am about mechanical things," she
said defensively. "I called her only for a suggestion. She was pretty
good, actually. Told me to call the gas company. It was only the pilot
light."

She admitted to a slight humiliation over that. To counter
the possibility of any repetition, he had made a list of service people and
stuck it on the wall over the kitchen phone.

"Don't give us a thought," she said. "Just
do whatever you have to do and do it successfully."

"The good old New England work ethic."

"You might say that." She wondered if Orson felt
the same sense of stability that her mother had given her father. "The old
rock will be here when you get back," she said. "Just watch out for
those French dames."

"Do you mean look for them or avoid them?" he said,
winking at her. He had turned his eyes away when he said it, which confused the
idea of the humor.

"Any way you like. Foreign aid is a matter of
principle." She wasn't sure what she meant by that, although it sounded
rather clever. "Just bring it back safe and sound," she said.

"It?"

She was teasing his prudish streak. In many ways, despite
his apparent worldliness, he was a bit of a stuffed shirt. Soon he would reach
that stage in life where his pomposity would be earned.

He had come to Washington just out of Harvard Law as one of
those hotshots appointed by the Justice Department. They had been married for a
year.

"Whither thou goest, I go," she told him then,
although she knew she would miss her parents, whom she saw once or twice a
month but spoke to frequently. She got a job as a secretary, and they moved to
northern Virginia, where the apartments rented for less. When Ben came she quit
her job, and they moved to the house in McLean.

By then Orson was making good money. By some standards, big
money. He had become a partner in a Washington law firm, and his income had
tripled, although he did work longer hours and began to travel more frequently.

Lately he seemed to work even harder than before, and there
were occasional signs of irritability. When she called it to his attention, it
only made him more irritable.

"It doesn't come by mirrors," he told her.
"You want the good things, you pay the price." Sometimes she felt as
if she had all the good things she needed and didn't desire any more.

She did love their house with its comforts and gadgets, and
she had lavished a good deal of time on decorating it. Mostly everything in it
had her stamp. And since Orson worked so hard, she did want to show her
appreciation by providing him with a beautiful setting. A home was not just
things, her mother had preached.

When he had finished dressing, she followed him out and put
on a coat.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Getting the car."

"In this weather? Are you mad?"

"I'm sure the highways will be clear."

"I won't hear of it," he said in a tone that
brooked no protest. "I'll call a cab."

"Suppose they're not running?" she asked.

He looked out the kitchen window. "Always looks the
worst from here." He frowned. He picked up the kitchen phone and talked
briefly. The frown disappeared. "Main roads still clear. They're
running." He appeared relieved. "Too important to miss."

Through the window she could see Ben shoveling snow into a
large pile. It still came down relentlessly in great white clumps.

"Did you call first to see if they're flying?"

"They are," he said decisively, remembering that
their house was not far from the flight pattern, although she had long ceased
to pay any attention to the jet sounds. Apparently he had made it a point to
let it filter into his consciousness. "Silly to worry," he said.
"The airlines know what they're doing, and pilots don't want to die any
more than passengers do."