The Angry Woman Suite (20 page)

“Do you mind?” I said to Lear through clenched teeth.

Lear’s smile was tight. “You’d prefer talking business?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then … have I mentioned what a tremendous asset Frederick is? Taking over most of the books the way he has, freeing me—” Lear stopped, as if remembering something.

“Yes?” Matthew’s eyes glittered.

“And Elizabeth … well, she’s been right well lately, too.”

“Fine woman,” Frederick declared.

I stared at Frederick with new amazement. He’d done it. He’d just confirmed he was certifiable. Everyone knew Elizabeth Grayson was a hell-hag.

“Yes, there
is
a certain new life about Elizabeth,” Lear concurred. “Something I haven’t seen for a long while.”

Matthew’s glittery eyes shot me a warning. “And what do you attribute that to?” he asked Lear. “Is Elizabeth less stressed because
you’re
under less stress now because of Frederick?”

I glanced about. Frederick’s attention was riveted on Lear, who shrugged.
And then I knew
. Something was going on between
Elizabeth Grayson and Frederick Forsythe. A preposterous idea, but nevertheless fascinating and oddly amusing, and although the picture in my head was repugnant, obscene, my mind fastened onto it, and I could scarcely wait for Lear and Frederick to leave.

But something had taken the wind out of Matthew’s sails. He radiated despair.

“We’re to do nothing, Aidan,” he told me when we were alone.

“But—”

“Aidan, look at the big picture. What do you see a year down the road?”

“I’m not sure where you’re headed with this,” I said, uneasy.

“Then I’ll tell you what
I
see. I see a broken family and a shattered Lear. That is, if you tell Lear what you
think
you know.”

“What
you
know, too! Elizabeth Grayson is sleeping with Frederick!” I looked more closely at Matthew. “And how is it you know everything
first?”

“Give yourself a little credit. You saw it the same time I did. Look, Lear’s intense, and like you, he’s been known to drink too much—”

“Aw, Matt—”

“Shut up, old boy,” Matthew said nicely. “Then Frederick arrives on the scene and all of a sudden Lear’s sobered up. Notice that? That Lear hasn’t been much of a drinking buddy to you lately? Have you asked yourself why? The answer isn’t because the pressure of running Grayson Investments has eased up; Lear thrives on business. No, Lear’s excuse for escaping has always been Elizabeth—but she’s not on his back.”

“Exactly!” I exulted. “She’s
preoccupied.”

Matthew mused, “I believe Frederick’s thinking he’s got things set in place.”

“How’s that?”

“Look at the other pieces of the puzzle.”

“What puzzle? I don’t know what you mean … I just know we need to do something to save Lear!”

Matthew scowled and stood up. “I’m here to tell you something, Aidan. You know what people care about when they get involved in things that are none of their business? They care about making themselves noticed.”

I flinched, drawing back.

“What
you
really care about, Aidan, is getting one over on Frederick and Elizabeth. Because you don’t like either of them. Fair enough—but tell it like it is. Just tell the truth. Can’t say as I blame you about Frederick, though. He’s an arrogant sonofabitch and we’d all do well to watch him.”

Matthew put a hand on my shoulder. “I love Sahar,” he said quietly. “I love her for being the other side of me. Sometimes when people are married as long as Sahar and I’ve been, that’s what’s left: being the other side of someone. But there’s another thing I’m here to tell you, Aidan: Sahar’s not what she seems. None of us are what we seem. Something else: Sahar never had polio. Close your mouth, Aidan. You heard me right. You’re wondering
why
Sahar tells the polio story? To explain the wheelchair, of course. But the better answer is because stories suit Sahar.

“Look, when Jamie was small, Sahar took a bad fall. Her spinal cord was damaged. There’s more. I’d been involved with someone else. Oh, it was stupid, it meant nothing, and it
had
finished. But she, the other woman, refused to accept it. She followed me. She stalked me. I went to her house to reason with her … I couldn’t have made a worse call. Sahar was there when I arrived. At the top of the stairs, on the landing, haranguing my mistress.”

I drew in a breath. Matthew looked at a point past my shoulder.

“She did it because she thought everything was about
her.
She did it because she couldn’t see a year down the road. She did it because she was thinking only of the immediate: how to punish me
and
how to get me back. But I was in her way, as she was in mine. She was pushed to the edge, Aidan.” Matthew’s eyes re-focused. “Aren’t we a joke? Aren’t we
all
jokes? Damn, but we’re jokes, Aidan. We say we want this or that, but then we put up roadblocks to keep ourselves from getting those very things we say we want.”

The “she’s” and “her’s” had mixed me up. I wasn’t sure
which
woman Matthew meant when he’d said they’d been in the other’s way. The mistress or Sahar? And “she” did
what?
was Matthew implying that the mistress had
pushed
Sahar down the flight of stairs? Or did he mean Sahar had engineered her own fall? And that the mistress had obstructed Matthew’s attempt to “catch” Sahar as she hurtled down the stairs?

“I’m not sure I—”

“Understand? Of course you don’t. Relationships aren’t your expertise, Aidan. But you
do
show promise. Listen. In the end she destroyed herself—but God help me,
I
was the one who set her up to do it. Think about that, Aidan.”

“But … why? If you loved Sahar so much,
why
did you need this other woman?”

Matthew snorted. “You’re the ultimate contradiction in terms, Aidan: a romantic academic. The answer is I
didn’t
need the other woman. I
wanted
her for the reasons men always want women. To feel good about myself, consequences be damned. But in this case, not long after starting the affair, I went back to feeling dead.”

Matthew’s voice went worn. “And then one day I woke up wanting to be different. I wanted to be better. A better person. I wanted to revamp the life I’d chosen first, the one with Sahar. I wanted Sahar whole …
I
wanted to feel whole once more.”

I watched Matthew work his Adam’s apple, fascinated, horrified, praying he wouldn’t break down. I wouldn’t know what to do if Matthew Waterston broke down.

“We can’t always get what we want, Aidan. But Sahar forgave me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“
She forgave me, and in so doing condemned me to eternal hell.”

His sudden ferocity was shocking.

“Hell! You understand what that means, Aidan? Of course you do! It means getting up every day and looking straight on at what you’ve done, knowing you can never take it back. It’s knowing I can never again say what I feel. If I do I’ll hurt Sahar more, and she’ll forgive me more! What does it take to make that woman
show
anger? To make her
real?
That look in Sahar’s eyes, you’ve seen it? Of course you’ve seen it! We’ve all seen it! Look closer. It’s
not
kindness, it’s
not
love, it’s not even
interest!
It’s the fires of hell! Sahar’s consumed with consuming me with her goddamn forgiveness and her goddamn understanding and her fucking
neediness!
And if you think for one minute that our insanity hasn’t touched Jamie and that he doesn’t understand his mother, you’ve got another think coming!”

Matthew steadied his breathing. “What I’m talking about, Aidan, is cause and effect. I’m talking consequences here. The consequences to Lear and his family, and by extension to you or me as well if you were to tell Lear about his wife and Frederick.

“I’m still not sure
exactly
where this is going, what Frederick’s up to, but I swear he’s up to something
more
than screwing Elizabeth—so, see, I
don’t
know everything first. But the one thing I do know is that unless you’re prepared to handle the consequences,
leave Lear’s family be.
Getting one over on Frederick Forsythe and Elizabeth Grayson is not simple.
Nothing
is simple.

“You should also know,” Matthew went on, voice regular again, “that there’s more to
Lear
than what’s readily apparent—but then again nothing’s real until you’ve seen it with your own eyes. I understand that. You know, it might well be the only way you’re ever going to learn anything, my friend: seeing it with your own eyes. It’s how it works for most of us. But in the meantime, try staying out of your own way, old boy. And here’s another piece of unsolicited advice: don’t let Lear push
you
to the edge.”

It was nearing spring of 1917 when I scribbled this note in my diary: “April 6
^th
, Washington’s Headquarters. I’ve just gotten the news. America has declared war on Germany. Everyone is frenzied. Forget Festival. This is an unbelievable day.”

Sahar told me that 250 soldiers were to be encamped at the base of Grayson Hill for field training prior to going overseas. It was a Saturday morning and she’d offered to man the museum while Jamie and I took the train to Philadelphia to see the James Reese Europe Orchestra perform. I adjusted my spectacles, almost spilling the coffee I was pouring for Jamie.

“Lear’s going over, too. He told Matthew yesterday.”

I spilled the coffee. “Overseas? To war? No! He’s too damn old!”

“He’ll be going with the ambulance corps. With Festival on hold, he’s thinking of writing about experiences on the front.”

“Like a war correspondent? Why, that’s the nuttiest—”

“He’s thinking of writing a book. You know how Lear’s always wanted to write.”

“I know no such thing,” I said grumpily. “And I’m surprised
you
know so much.”

“You’re always surprised I know so much. Thank God Jamie’s only fifteen. And Matthew
is
too old. Plus, we’ll still have you, Aidan.”

I was not blind, but I was disadvantaged. My vision, though long stable, had been affected by my old childhood injury, to the point I wasn’t able, needed or wanted for war.

“Frederick Forsythe’s been called up,” Sahar said briskly. “He’s leaving right after the wedding.”

“What wedding?” I didn’t listen for the answer. I was thinking of Lear’s obsession with the war; how it wasn’t fair that I, the man who’d so carefully and almost single-handedly preserved the story of the Battle of Brandywine, nearly living on top of its battlefield, honoring relics and warriors with my museum and lectures, could be deemed unfit to participate in a current war, while the likes of the fastidious Lear, who knew war only from newspapers,
and
the pain-in-the-ass Frederick, were welcomed with opened arms. Never mind that I hadn’t believed in America’s involvement in the war in the first place: that wasn’t the point. Illegitimacy was the point.

“Magdalene Grayson and Frederick Forsythe’s wedding. Aidan, are you listening to me? The wedding’s in three weeks. I told Lear I’d love to host a reception at the mill house.”

“I’d no idea Frederick and Magdalene were even seeing each other.” I glanced at Jamie, then gave Sahar a certain look, sending the message,
But what about Frederick and Elizabeth?

But what I said aloud was, “And Frederick’s been called up, you say?”

“Lothian’s going to be bridesmaid,” Jamie volunteered.

“And what about Magdalene’s other sister?” I asked irritably. “Stella the monster? What about Stella? Isn’t it customary for
all
the bride’s sisters to attend the bride?”

“But no one’s ever actually seen Stella,” Sahar protested. “You know that.”

“Whether Stella’s at the wedding or not,” Jamie said airily, “is up to Magdalene. The bride gets to choose.” Jamie’s lips turned up at the corners, in a sly grin. “Lothian says Stella’s an ogre, she’s so deformed.”

“Lothian’s imaginative,” Sahar reproved. And then, “Is there
really
a Stella?”

Jamie didn’t answer directly. “It’s true, Mother, Lothian
is
the most imaginative person I know—besides you. But just think: if Magdalene says Stella’s in, then everyone will finally get their chance to ogle Stella.”

For the first time in a long while I thought of Magdalene, recalling what a strange child she’d been. A picture swam into my consciousness, but it wasn’t of the fair-haired, big-boned outsider who’d disdained
me
and the status quo. It was of umber-colored fields and ice-blue streams wending past picturesque farms—but beyond that pretty distance storm clouds hovered. I’d shared that picture with Magdalene on the crest of the knoll where I’d found her crying, and whereas I’d looked out on that landscape and seen magnificence, Magdalene had looked
beyond
and seen adversary in those dark clouds overhead. She’d seen the war making its way for us. She’d said, “I am
overwhelmed
… I wanted to be
moved.”

She was evil. She delighted in spectacle, probably even manufacturing crises when life got predictable, just so she could watch them play out; that’s the kind of evil girl she was. I never saw her actually do it, but I easily imagined her instigating fights in my schoolyard, walking away satisfied as they picked up steam. Most likely she’d pulled wings off butterflies, too, just to watch them wobble into their death throes.

Naturally, then, I wasn’t naive enough to believe that time had mellowed Magdalene Grayson. As a spy without peer, she must’ve discovered her mother’s affair with Frederick Forsythe. In fact, Magdalene, I told myself, had to be marrying Frederick Forsythe for the sheer spectacle of spiting her mother. That would be just like her.

I smiled at Sahar and urged Jamie to run back across the road to collect another sweater for our journey to Philadelphia.

“Imagine,”
I said to Sahar, watching Jamie disappear into the mill house. “Elizabeth’s worked so diligently at keeping her shame locked up. But damn, without Stella as a member of this wedding party, Magdalene wouldn’t have even
half
a spectacle, and I’ll bet—”