The New Yorker Stories (71 page)

“No mon is an island,” Jerome said. Jerome very much enjoyed wordplay and imitating dialects. Dialect from de islands was currently his favorite. He and Brenda had recently vacationed in Montego Bay.

“And this is the shadow,” Nelson said, pointing, ignoring Jerome’s silly contribution. “This is the plate, this the hour line, this the dial, or diagram.”

“You are a born teacher,” Brenda said.

“I broke that habit,” Nelson said. He had. He had resigned when the theorists outnumbered what he called “the sane art historians.” Worried that his ex-colleagues would resent his work with Roman coins, he was fond of stressing that he was not a numismatist. Dale had left with him, retaining only two loyal students who drove hours each week to work with her in the darkroom.

“Groton or no Groton, he had such an interest in knowledge that we had nothing to worry about with Nelson. I wore her down, and I was right to have done it,” Jerome said. The time would never come when Jerome would not want to be thanked, one more time, for having saved Nelson—as they both thought of it—from the clutches of Groton.

“Which I thank you for,” Nelson said.

“And, if I’d been around at your birth, I could have stopped her from naming you for a sea captain,” Jerome said.

“Oh, Nelson is a
lovely
name,” Brenda said.

“Of course, if I’d been around at your birth, people might have suspected something funny was going on,” Jerome said.

“I thought you met Didi in Paris, when Nelson was five or six,” Brenda said.

“He was four. He was five when we got married.”

Didi had gone to Paris to study painting. Actually, she had gone to have an affair with her Theosophy instructor. That hadn’t had a happy ending, though Didi had met Jerome at Les Deux Magots. No snail-like dawdling; by her own admission, she had struck with the speed of a snake.

“I didn’t understand what you meant then, when you said ‘If I’d been around,’ ” Brenda said.

“I was just saying if. If things had been otherwise. Other than what they were. If.”

“But I think you implied that you knew Didi when she gave birth. Didn’t he?” Brenda said.

“Brenda, you were a child when all this happened. You need not be jealous,” Jerome said.

“I know I should let this drop, Jerome, but it seemed sort of strange to suggest you might have been there,” Brenda said. “Am I being too literal-minded again?”

“Yes,” Nelson said.

“Well, no, I mean, sometimes I feel like something is being said between the lines and because I’m a newcomer I don’t quite get it.”

“I’ve lived with you for six years, Brenda,” Jerome said. He said it with finality, as if she would do well to drop the subject, if she wanted to live with him another six seconds.

Brenda said nothing. Dale gestured to the soup tureen, beside the sundial. Also on the table was a silver bowl of freshly snipped chives and a little Chinese dish, enameled inside, that Dale had found for a quarter at a tag sale. People in the area did not value anything they were selling that was smaller than a beachball. The Chinese dish was an antique. Inside, there was a pyramid of unsweetened whipped cream.

“Fabulous. Fabulous soup,” Jerome said. “So when are you going to let me bankroll your restaurant?”

He’d wanted Dale to open a restaurant in New York for years. Jerome had all the money in the world, inherited when his parents died and left him half the state of Rhode Island. Since Jerome was a part-time stockbroker, he’d managed to invest it wisely. Back in the days before Dale showed her photographs at a gallery on Newbury Street, in Boston, it had been more difficult to dismiss Jerome’s ideas.

“So how’s the photography coming?” he said, when she didn’t answer. Brenda was still eating her soup, not looking up.

“I’ve got some interesting stuff I’ve been working on,” Dale said. “The woman down the road . . .” She gestured into the dark. Only a tiny blinking light from the bridge to Portsmouth could be seen, far in the distance. “There’s one woman who lives there year-round—heating with a woodstove—and I’ve taken photographs. . . . Well, it always sounds so stupid, talking about what you’re photographing. It’s like paraphrasing a book,” she said, hoping to elicit Nelson’s sympathy.

“Just the general idea,” Jerome said.

“Well, she does astrological charts for people, and they’re really quite beautiful. And she has amazing hands, like Georgia O’Keeffe’s. I’ve photographed her hands as she makes marks on the parchment paper. Hands say so much about a person, because you can’t change your hands.”

The longer she talked, the more stupid she felt.

“Have you had your chart done?” Jerome said. The stiffness of disapproval registered in his voice.

“No,” Dale said.

“I had my chart done once,” Brenda said. “I have it somewhere. It was apparently very unusual, because all my moons were in one house.”

Jerome looked at her. “Didi believed in astrology,” he said. “She thought we were mismatched because she was a Libra and I was a Scorpio. This apparently gave her license to have an affair with a policeman.”

“I’m not Didi,” Brenda said flatly. She had evidently decided not to let Jerome relegate her to silence. Dale was proud of her for that.

“Will you carve the roast?” Dale said to Nelson. “I’ll get the vegetables out of the oven.”

She felt a little bad about leaving Brenda alone at the table with Jerome, but Nelson was much better at carving than she was. She stood and began collecting soup bowls.

“Does that woman with the earmuffs still see you?” Dale said to Brenda as she picked up her bowl. Very offhanded. As if the conversation had been going fine. It would give Brenda the excuse to rise and follow her into the kitchen, if she wanted to. But Brenda didn’t do that. She said, “Yeah. I’ve gotten to like her a little better, but her worrying about losing body heat through her ears—you’ve got to wonder.”

“All the world is exercising,” Jerome said. “Brenda has more requests for her services than she can keep up with. The gym stays open until ten at night now on Thursdays. Do you two exercise?”

“There’s an Exercycle in the downstairs bedroom. Sometimes I do it while I’m watching CNN,” Nelson said.

Jerome gave his little half nod again. “And you?” he said to Dale. “Still doing the fifty situps? You’re looking wonderful, I must say.”

“She can’t,” Nelson said, answering for her. “The Ménière’s thing. It screws up her inner ear if she does that sort of repetitive activity.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Brenda said. “How are you feeling, Dale?”

“Fine,” she said. Things were better. The problem would never go away unless, of course, it spontaneously went away. Things had been so bad because the hypoglycemia complicated the problem, and that was pretty much under control, but she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Remind me of what you can’t eat,” Jerome said. “Not that we wouldn’t be too intimidated to have you to dinner anyway. Better to reciprocate at a restaurant in the city.”

“You don’t have to reciprocate,” Dale said. “I like to cook.”

“I wouldn’t be intimidated,” Brenda said.

“You wouldn’t,” he said. “I stand corrected.”

“It can be a problem, when you’re really good at something, no one will even try to do that thing for you,” Brenda said. “There’s a girl at work who gives the best massage in the world, and nobody will touch her because she’s the best. The other day, I rubbed just her shoulders, and she almost swooned.”

“Taking up massage also?” Jerome said.

“What do you mean, also?” Brenda said. “This is about the fact that you don’t like me working late on Thursdays, isn’t it? I might remind you that if a client calls, whatever time it is, it’s nothing for you to be on the phone for an hour.”

“No fighting!” Nelson said.

“We’re not fighting,” Jerome said.

“Well, you’ve been
trying
to provoke a fight with me,” Brenda said.

“Then it was unconscious. I apologize,” Jerome said.

“Oh, honey,” Brenda said, getting up, putting her napkin on the table. She went around the table and hugged Jerome.

“She likes me again,” Jerome said.

“We all like you,” Nelson said. “I, personally, think you saved my life.”

“That goes too far,” Jerome said. “I just wasn’t one of those stereotypically disinterested stepfathers. I considered it a real bonus that I could help raise you.”

“If only you’d taught me more about electrical problems,” Nelson said.

“It’s toggled together, but it should hold until I get my hands on a soldering gun,” Jerome said. “But seriously—Dale—what do they think the prognosis is about this thing you have?”

Roasted vegetables cascaded into the bowl. Dale put the Pyrex dish carefully in the sink and opened the drawer, looking for a serving spoon. “I’m fine,” she said.

“It’s complicated,” Nelson said. “She eats nothing but walnuts and cheese sticks for breakfast. You think she looks good? Will she still, if she loses another fifteen pounds?”

“Cheese is full of calories,” Dale said. It was going to be impossible not to talk about it until everyone else’s anxiety was alleviated. She lowered her voice. “Come on, Nelson,” she said. “It’s boring to talk about.”

“Cheese? What’s with the cheese?” Jerome said.

“Honey, you are
cross-examining
her,” Brenda said.

“So—here is some fresh applesauce, and here are the vegetables—I’ll put them by you, Jerome—and Nelson’s got the roast,” Dale said, going back to her chair. The chairs were Danish Modern, with a geometric quilted pattern on the seats. Apparently, the professor and his wife had also had a sabbatical in Denmark.

“Oh, you already had apples. I knew you would,” Brenda said.

“She won’t touch the applesauce. Pure sugar,” Nelson said.

“Nelson,” Dale said, “please stop talking about it.” She asked, “Does anyone want water?”

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll have that Mâcon-Lugny Les Charmes Nelson told me you laid in,” Jerome said.

“Absolutely,” Dale said, getting up. Nelson walked around her with the platter.

“She has some wine called Opus One for the doctor, who’s coming to dinner—when is it, Thursday?” Nelson said. “We were supposed to go there for drinks, but Dale countered with dinner. Talk about being grateful.”

“What year?” Jerome said.

“It was a present,” Dale said. “From a student who’s married to a wine importer, so I suspect it’s good.”

Nelson held the platter for Brenda to serve herself.

“Has it been properly stored?” Jerome said. “That could be an excellent wine. We can only hope nothing happened to it.”

Dale looked at him. As interested as he’d ostensibly been in her health, the concern about the wine was far greater. She had thought, to begin with, that being so solicitous had actually been Jerome’s way of pointing out her vulnerability. Poor Dale, who might have to be stretched out on the floor any second. It fit with his concept of women.

Nelson moved to Jerome’s side. He was holding the bottle. “Nineteen eighty-five,” he said.

“You know, that is a very elegant wine indeed. Let me see that,” Jerome said. Jerome cradled the bottle against his chest. He looked down at it, smiling. “May I, as the person who once saved your husband’s life, ask what would you think about my opening this to go with dinner?” he said.

“Jerome!” Brenda said. “Give that back to Nelson.”

Nelson looked at Dale, with an expression somewhere between perplexity and pleading. It was just a bottle of wine. She had no reason to think the doctor or her husband were wine connoisseurs. There was the bottle of Saint-Émilion, but it would have seemed churlish to mention it now. “Absolutely,” Dale said. She pushed her chair back and went to the cupboard and took out their own stemmed glasses with a wide bowl which they had brought with them, along with her duvet and the collection of cooking magazines.

Dale put a glass at everyone’s place. Jerome was smiling. “We can only hope,” he said.

Brenda was looking at Dale, but Dale did not meet her eyes. She was determined to let them all see that she was unconcerned. Jerome was usually so polite.

“Tell me,” he said, wine bottle clamped between his legs, turning the corkscrew. “Surely you aren’t going to decline one small glass of this, Dale?”

“I can’t drink,” she said.

“Then what is that glass for?” he said.

“Perrier,” she said, pronouncing the word very distinctly.

Jerome looked attentively at the bottle as he slowly withdrew the cork. He picked up the bottle slowly and sniffed. Then he put his white linen napkin over his finger and worked it around the top, inside the bottle. That was the first time it became clear to her that he was doing what he was doing out of anger. She picked up her fork and speared a piece of eggplant.

“You’ve fallen quiet, Dale,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to sound mildly surprised.

“It’s just that you’re so quiet,” he persisted.

Brenda seemed about to speak, but said nothing. Dale managed a shrug. “I hope there are enough spices on the vegetables,” she said. “I roasted them without salt. Would anyone like salt?”

Of course, since they had all now turned their attention to Dale, whatever she said sounded false and shallow.

“I appreciate your laying in Mâcon-Lugny for me,” Jerome went on. “In most cases, white would go well with pork roast. But an ’85 Opus One—that, of course, is completely divine.” Jerome sniffed the bottle. It might have been snuff, he inhaled so deeply. Then he sat the bottle on the table, near the sundial. “Let it breathe for a moment,” he said. He turned his chair at an angle, feigning closeness with Dale.

Dale picked up a piece of carrot with her fingers and bit into it. She said nothing.

“You had Didi to dinner last month with some friends of yours, I hear,” he said.

Who had told him, since he and Didi didn’t speak? Nelson, obviously. Why?

“Yes,” Dale said.

Jerome took a bite of meat and a bite of vegetable. He reached for the applesauce and ladled some on his plate. He said nothing about the food.

“I understand you’ve made a portrait of her,” he said.