Morning (34 page)

“You were gone an awfully long time,” Carole said, skeptically.

“Yeah, well, we sat out in the car for a while and talked. She’s pretty unhappy. Her husband sounds like a louse. Jesus, I can’t believe Eileen would get so upset! What does she think I was doing?”

“You could have told her you were leaving,” Carole said. “You could have asked her to come with you.”

“She was dancing,” Watson said. “She was having a high old time on the dance floor. Besides,” he added, looking sheepish, “Mary was really upset. She said she needed to get away before she started crying. She was almost in tears. In fact, she was in tears by the time we got out to the car.”

“Poor Wittle Baa,” Jamie Jones said drunkenly. “Poor baby.”

“Well, you’d better go find Eileen and explain all that to her,” Carole said. “She can’t have gone far; she doesn’t know Nantucket that well and I’m sure she couldn’t walk to our house from here; she’d get lost. Listen, Watson, you probably did the right thing, but you should have checked with Peter and me. I mean, this is an old routine Mary pulls and there isn’t a wife—or lover—around who hasn’t gotten upset over it. Mary’s a real manipulator. You were only being kind, but she was being sleazy. You’ve got to let Eileen know that nothing happened. Let her know that you only felt
sorry
for Mary. I
mean, I know it’s awful that Eileen slapped you, but she thought you deserved it.”

“Why don’t the three of us go find Eileen?” Pete said. “We should be getting home anyway; it’s late.”

With that, the party broke up. Sara rode home in silence, leaning on Steve’s shoulder as he drove. She grinned nastily in the dark: there would be a perfect moment in the future, she knew, when she could tell Steve that poor little Mary was known among the wives in the group as HBO. Then she sobered, thinking: perhaps the men called her that, too. She felt sorry for Mary now, and in that pity was a great relief.

Earlier that night, when the women had gone en masse to the ladies’ room, Sara had overheard Jamie and Carole wondering aloud to each other just how much their husbands had had to drink.

“Oh, Jamie,” Sara had said, “I don’t think Sheldon’s drunk. I sat next to him at dinner.”

“You don’t understand, Sara,” Jamie had said, “Shel will seem perfectly sober—he’ll
be
perfectly sober through a whole lot of drinks, and then suddenly one too many will set him off. And we never know what that one too many is. He’s an alcoholic, you see,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I always know the minute Pete’s had too much,” Carole had sighed. “His actions change completely, instantly. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. God, sometimes I get so sick of it. If it weren’t for the kids …”

The women continued to talk. Sara combed her hair and put on fresh makeup, listening all the while to the talk going on around her. She realized why these two women had a special friendship, why they went off together one night a week without asking other women in the group to go with them: they were attending Al-Anon meetings. She was so glad to know that! Not that their husbands had problems with alcohol, but that the tie between the two women was one that she couldn’t share—thank heavens. It was not that they were leaving Sara out of something because they didn’t want her company.

“I sometimes feel that I’m no more mature than I was in high school,” Sara said aloud. “I sometimes feel I have the mentality of a teenager.”

“Hey, great,” Steve said. “Wanna drive out to the Jetties and park the car and neck?”

“No thanks,” Sara said. “It’s too cold. I’ve grown up enough to appreciate the comforts of a bed.” She looked over at Steve and grinned. “But I’ll put my hand on your
thigh and blow in your ear if you’d like.”

“Is that what you used to do to all your boyfriends when you were a teenager?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “That’s so long ago, I can’t remember.”

“Make up your mind, lady!” Steve said. “A moment ago you were saying—”

“I know,” Sara said. “I know. I’m too tired to be intelligent now. Too foggy with all that champagne. I’m going to feel awful in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Steve said.

And it was, very early morning. When they walked into their house, they walked arm in arm through darkness, while overhead stars burned and glittered in celestial celebration of another new year.

Morning.

Three-fifteen in the morning, and outside the window a blaze of splendid blue sky, streaked with flame-tinted clouds. Below them the world slowly whirled.

Really it was eight-fifteen in the morning, for they were almost in London. The stewardess was quietly making the rounds, giving passengers warm rolled-up towels and trays of breakfast with steaming coffee or tea. Time had lurched for the people on this plane, had skipped a beat, but their bodies were still stumbling along on the old time.

In the seat next to Sara, Fanny still slept a deep and dreamy Valium sleep. Sara had no idea how many pills Fanny had taken before she got on the plane, just as she had no idea how many Fanny took just to get through a regular day. She decided to let Fanny sleep until the last moment, to let her sleep until they landed, if possible, just in case Fanny was nervous about landings. Although it seemed it wasn’t accidents that worried Fanny—it was always, and only, the judgment of people.

Fanny did seem to be weathering her reentrance to the world well. Sara had nursed her along this past month and watched Fanny grow more confident with every step, just like a child. First she had taken the author to have her hair styled and tinted to hide the streaks of gray. The hairdresser, a handsome young man, had been suavely flattering to Fanny, and her hairstyle had turned out a smashing success. Sara watched while right before her eyes, Fanny’s fear of judgment shrank as her vanity caught fire again and leapt up, making her eyes blaze, her skin glow. She had not lost it, the old powerful taste, the craving, for the admiration, and the envy, and the homage paid to her
by others’ eyes.

The next day Sara took Fanny shopping for new clothes. Again, the outing was a success. The saleswomen were honestly impressed with Fanny’s figure and posture, and the new fashions and colors Fanny tried—brighter, more vivid, than the pastels she usually chose—were flattering. Fanny needed everything, business suits (which looked amazingly sexy on her full figure), dinner dresses, walking shoes and slacks for their spare time in London. At one point in their shopping tour, to Sara’s amazement, Fanny said casually, “Why don’t we stop in here and buy you a mink, Sara?”

“What?” Sara had asked, almost laughing with surprise. To say something so casually!

“Well, you’ve admired mine so much, and it does make one feel so elegant to wear mink. Besides, they’re warm. It’s practical.”

“Fanny, I can’t afford a mink coat,” Sara began, but Fanny interrupted her.

“Oh, I know. But I can. And I’d love to buy you one for a present. It’s only fair, after all you’ve done for me.”

For one brief second the dream of owning a mink coat glimmered in Sara’s mind like a sparkling jewel, and there Fanny stood, her fairy godmother, ready to wave her wand.

“I couldn’t let you buy me a mink coat, Fanny,” Sara protested.

“But, darling, you know I have more money than I know what to do with!” Fanny said.

“I know, I know, but I’m sure now that you’re getting out more you’ll find all sorts of things to spend your money on,” Sara said. “Fanny, it’s incredibly generous of you to suggest it, but really, I can’t let you do it. And don’t worry, I shan’t embarrass you in London, I won’t go slouching around behind you like a poor country cousin.”

“Oh, my dear, you know it’s fine with me if you do!” Fanny said. “It will only make
me
look better!” She laughed heartily.

Jenny’s Book
had come out in the States this week, and Walpole and James had thrown a publication party for Fanny—the first party she had been to in five years. Sara had scheduled the party before the London trip so that Fanny could have a trial run-through. For most Americans a London party would be a momentous occasion; for Fanny it would be overwhelming.

The Boston party went well. It was crowded with journalists from Boston and
New York, other writers and editors and agents, and assorted types who loved the literary world. Linda Oldham had come from Heartways House, delighted at last to be able to meet the reclusive writer. Fanny had worn a simple black wool dress with pearls, had looked smashing, had been charming and witty, and had been much admired, although Sara wasn’t sure just how aware she was of her triumph, for she went to the party stuffed with Valium and drank gallons of scotch once she got there. Sara had seldom seen anyone drink so much and stay so sober. She knew that all those calming drugs were fighting against the adrenaline of fear that was shooting through Fanny’s veins. Her first party in years! She did beautifully.

Steve had come up for the publication party and afterward he and Sara and Fanny and Donald James went to a small French restaurant for dinner. Sara watched, both amused and impressed, as Fanny set out to captivate both men. Her Kansas drawl grew more lilting and lazy, her vocabulary more ladylike and quaint, her movements more voluptuous, her smile enticing. Sara noticed that Fanny ate almost nothing but drank lots of wine. Sara had never watched a first-class enchantress at work before, and it was a marvelous lesson. How subtle Fanny was, how
feminine
!

As they were leaving the restaurant, Donald James drew Fanny aside and exacted a promise that she have lunch with him when she returned from London.

“I don’t believe it. That old nun!” Sara said in the car. “He’s smitten with you, Fanny, you’ve managed to get even
him
enamored of you.”

“Oh, dear, he just wants to have a business lunch, I’m sure. Find out how London went and all that.” Fanny’s voice was smug. She was slowly rubbing her cheek against the collar of her mink.

“Would you like to meet us for lunch tomorrow?” Sara asked as they stopped in front of Fanny’s Victorian house.

“Oh, goodness, no.” Fanny laughed. “Sara, don’t you know that I shan’t get out of bed at all tomorrow? I’ll probably sleep till three or four—the sleep of the just. It takes me a while to unwind,” she added. “I always did get so excited at parties. I’ll probably be up a few more hours, telling poor old dreary Eloise about my triumphs. Then I’ll have a very hot bath and a glass of—don’t laugh!—cocoa!—and I hope I’ll finally manage to get to sleep about three or four in the morning. I’ve always been this way. It’s one of the reasons I stopped going out. Steve,” she said then, “will you be kind enough to escort me to my door?”

Not until Sara saw Steve assisting Fanny up the winding slate walk did she realize how drunk Fanny was, or perhaps it was that she was drunk and truly exhausted. For her first night out in five years, it had been a strenuous night. Sara saw the draperies parted in the living room and a dark figure watching: Eloise. Then the door opened and Eloise was there, putting her hand under Fanny’s arm. Sara could see Eloise’s face in the light; she was not smiling, but she looked sane and gentle, just what Fanny needed now, Common Sense embodied. She was glad they could leave the excitable Fanny in such good hands.

As Steve and Sara waited outside Fanny’s door the following evening, the terrible fear that Fanny would back out of the trip to London from sheer terror had Sara nearly sick—but at last the door opened, and there Eloise was. Behind her was Fanny in her mink, with an assortment of luggage lined up in the entrance hall. Steve had driven both women to the airport, and bought them a celebratory glass of champagne and kissed Sara and promised that she would return safely and that he would be completely miserable every moment she was gone. They had gone through customs. They had boarded the plane. Almost immediately Fanny had taken another pill and very soon after the plane lifted off, she was deep in sleep.

Now here they were, about to land. In about thirty minutes, the stewardess said. Sara looked at her watch; she would wake Fanny up in ten minutes, to give her time to get oriented and fix her face and hair. She hoped this London trip would be all right for Fanny. Fanny had done beautifully in Boston, and it did not seem to have taken too great a toll on her; in fact she seemed to have taken on some momentum. But London would be different. She had known people in London; she would very possibly be seeing people here that she had known ten and fifteen and twenty years before, when she was young and beautiful. Fanny’s obsession with her youth might be ludicrous, might even, on some ethical spectrum, be
wrong
, but she was caught in it, it was her obsession.

Sara was only now, it seemed, beginning to really understand the nature of obsession.

There was her own obsession with getting pregnant. Her life had become emblazoned with her desire so that no matter what else was happening on any given day, that desire displayed itself in vivid colors across the face of that day, obscuring other meanings in her life. It was crippling her. She knew that, and did not know how to change—that was part of being obsessed, after all, not being able to leave off wanting what you wanted.

At least her obsession was helping her see more deeply into others’ lives. It was helping her to be tolerant with Fanny. And it was helping her to understand others, too.

She was just now beginning to realize what her mother’s life was like, just now beginning to comprehend her mother’s obsession, and was sobered by what she had come to understand. When she had called her mother to tell her that she was going to London with Fanny for a week, and that once again she wasn’t pregnant, her mother said, “Now, Sara, this may be a blessing in disguise. One’s life can be just as important, just as worthwhile, and certainly a great deal more fun and interesting if one
doesn’t
have children. Children tie you down terribly, you know, they change your life absolutely and completely, and once you have them all your dreams are destroyed. Your dreams can never ever come true. Well, perhaps when they’re grown. Really, if I were you, I’d look on this as a godsend. You’re going to go to London! Do you have any idea how much I wanted to go to London when I was your age? And there I was, stuck in the house with two little children and the dishes to do. Not that I didn’t love you and Ellie, of course.”