The Hunger Moon (14 page)

She began counting how many of the couples she knew were still with their original spouses, and how many had remarried. Of course even the long-standing marriages might be just for show; no one ever knew what was behind the façade of someone else’s domestic life.

To this day she didn’t know whether Robert had had the affair she had suspected, or not. He had worked with a female doctor, a surgical resident twenty years his junior named Deborah, who clearly had thought the world of him. When they had cocktail parties or holiday open houses, there was Deborah, hovering at
Robert’s arm all night, laughing at his witticisms, smiling into his eyes as she tucked her hair behind one ear. Seeing this, Eleanor never worried. She was a confident woman, and felt her own value. The fact that Robert’s protégé might have a crush on him seemed natural, something that they could laugh about together as they picked up glasses and napkins after a party. But this was during a cool period between them, when Eleanor had just been appointed to the bench and was spending long hours learning the job—a circumstance that had made Robert sulk—and somehow Eleanor never made the joke she intended to about Deborah’s adoring looks. Then, when they threw a retirement cookout for a good friend of theirs, the chief attending surgeon Robert was later picked to replace, Deborah was there, but she kept a measured distance from Robert, and didn’t seem to speak to him all night.

That was when it occurred to Eleanor that this woman might be having an affair with her husband. She watched them carefully, and although Robert and Deborah were not ever beside each other in the backyard where the Japanese lanterns bobbed around the patio, it seemed to Eleanor that they were somehow constantly in touch. She didn’t see them looking at each other, but rather felt that they were ignoring each other with a hypersensitivity that could only mean they were absorbed with thoughts of the other person. Eleanor didn’t know why she suddenly knew how Robert would act if he were having his lover over to the house under her nose, but she was sure that she did know, and that Robert was behaving exactly this way.

By the evening’s end, when the suspicion had fully gripped her, Eleanor felt her mind become even more analytical and methodical than usual. A coolness imbued her thinking. First, she reminded herself that she might be entirely wrong. Deborah might have had other reasons to stay away from Robert; perhaps he had slighted her on an evaluation. Or she might have even flirted with him at work, felt herself to be rejected, and was now angry. These were possibilities. Eleanor owed it to everyone not
to assume her intuition was infallible. But even with these counter-arguments running through her mind, Eleanor could not shake the feeling that something had happened, and nothing would be the same for her again.

She waited a week, maybe ten days, and, in a general conversation at the breakfast table about people at the hospital, Eleanor inquired as to how Deborah was doing. Robert kept his eyes on the knife buttering his toast as he told her that Deborah was doing great, and had gotten the best evaluation of any of his residents. Then he bit into his toast and discussed the chief attending job that was opening up, and whether he would accept it if offered. Eleanor counted this as changing the subject.

She never did find out if she was right. Perhaps she had fantasized the whole thing to remind herself that she still loved her husband, and what the stakes might be if they didn’t get beyond this estrangement. Eleanor decided never to bring the matter up with Robert, nor to act as if she suspected anything. She began to come home at five-thirty on weekdays, and, if she absolutely had to work on weekends, bring the files home with her rather than drive in to her chambers. She began to invite her husband to do things with her—a golf game on Saturday, a museum benefit. Quietly, steadily, she waged her campaign. She was fifty-six years old; she was not about to make herself ridiculous, but she did buy herself some smart new clothes. Gradually Robert seemed to notice that Eleanor was around more, that she was interested in how his day went and in his company. At least that was the turn that Eleanor put on things, because one night they found themselves deciding to go to a movie, something they hadn’t done in more than a year. Eleanor’s birthday came around, and Robert bought her some large diamond earrings, the most extravagant jewelry he had ever given her. He took her out to dinner at the Ritz, and as the jewels sparkled in her ears and she looked at him across the table, she felt herself begin to relax inside again. She had her husband back; she was sure of it.

Two years later, an invitation arrived in the mail to attend Deborah’s
wedding in New York. Her residency was in its final year in Boston and she was moving in the spring to begin her practice in Manhattan.

“How long has this been going on?” Eleanor asked, waving the invitation.

“What?” Robert looked up from his newspaper. “Oh, Deborah and her fiancé? A year maybe, not sure. She’s been commuting a lot.” He resumed his reading.

So Eleanor never knew, and she surprised herself by not caring to know. Occasionally she examined her slim evidence, based on nothing, really—a feeling, a look—and decided that she must have simply been imagining things. But from the time of their reconciliation until Robert’s death twelve years later, she could honestly say that she had a moment almost every day when she felt grateful to have her husband back. She would have hated being divorced. Being a widow was different. You lost the company of your husband, but you didn’t lose all the years you had had with him. You didn’t have to change the way you thought about the primary fact of your past.

The room was beginning to seem too close to Eleanor; she didn’t feel as if she had quite enough air. She was grateful that she had taken a seat a few minutes ago, because suddenly she felt light-headed. Surely two or three sips of rum weren’t enough to do her in.

“Eleanor, what a pleasure to see you. It’s been ages.” Eleanor smiled and blinked at the woman, waiting for the name to come to her, or at least the face.

“So, how’s the place in Brookline?”

“It’s very convenient to everything,” Eleanor said, completely at a loss as to whom she was talking. The woman was tall and olive-skinned, and somewhat younger than she was.

“Don’t I know! You don’t miss the gardening?”

“Frankly, no. Enough is enough of anything.” Eleanor was having trouble focusing on the woman’s words. They seemed to be bouncing around her ears, but not really penetrating.

“You’re so right. Though you had such beautiful landscaping in Belmont. For years I coveted that flowering cherry of yours.”

Eleanor began to panic. This face meant nothing to her, yet clearly they had known each other for years. She gamely tried to keep up her end of the conversation. “Finish your Christmas shopping yet?”

The woman looked at her strangely, then laughed. “Thank goodness I don’t have to get involved in that scene. Hanukkah is so simple by comparison.”

Eleanor laughed too, as if she had merely made a joke. But she was beginning to see that faking it was not simple.

“You’re in the same place?” Eleanor asked.

“Well, yes. The same place I’ve been in for the last year. Didn’t I send you my new address? I was sure I had.” The woman fished in her bag for a pen and drew out a business card. “We’re so close now, we really should get together for lunch. Give me a call when you get a chance,” she said, scribbling a home address and phone number on the back.

When the woman moved on to speak with someone else, Eleanor stole a glance at the card. E
LSA
G
REEN
K
ATZ
, M.D., P
SYCHIATRY
. Eleanor tried to survey the years, like looking backward down a telescope where her old friends and social life dwelled tiny in memory. Elsa, Elsa. A colleague of Robert’s? Probably. She was fairly sure none of them had ever consulted a psychiatrist for anything. It wasn’t like them. She shook her head to focus things.

She was suddenly exhausted. She could barely stand under the wave of tiredness that had swept over her. She made her way to Marjorie and Lionel, who were standing together telling some practiced story that they each took turns with. When Eleanor approached them, Lionel was waiting for his lines, an impatient smile playing on his lips. He winked at Eleanor, and returned his gaze to the couple who were their audience, trembling for his turn like a racehorse at the gate. Eleanor saw that they were only in the middle of their tale of lost luggage in Bermuda. Knowing
how Lionel loved to draw out his anecdotes, she broke in just as he began to speak.

“I’m off, you two. Wonderful party.”

Lionel looked annoyed at the interruption, but quickly put on his host manners, changing the irritation to concern. “So soon, Eleanor? You only just got here.”

“Yes, don’t go yet,” said Marjorie. “We haven’t even had a chance to talk.”

“I really must. Early day tomorrow,” Eleanor lied.

“Well, if you have to, let me get your coat for you,” Lionel said, casting one last longing glance at his audience, who had now been distracted by a passing hors d’oeuvres plate.

I
N THE TAXI
, E
LEANOR COLLAPSED WITH RELIEF
. What had she been thinking of? Everyone talking about Florida and the stock market. Everyone so kissy and huggy. She gathered her coat around her and must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, the cabby was saying impatiently, “That’s fifteen dollars, ma’am.” She gave him twenty, because it was easier to let him keep the change than to try and put it away in the dark. He came around and opened her door and gave her a hand to grasp as she pulled herself out of the car. Goodness, she must give the appearance of being frail. Everyone was so solicitous of her these days.

That’s what she liked about June. She was helpful without making her feel doddering. Eleanor always felt more awake after June’s afternoons. Tuesday when she had been over, Eleanor presented her with the box containing the old suit.

“It was just a whim of mine,” Eleanor said, half-embarrassed. Would June be insulted that as a Christmas present Eleanor was giving her old clothes? The gift now seemed like a stupid idea, but it was too late to change her mind. “You seemed interested in this, so I wanted you to have it.”

Eleanor found the excitement in June’s face almost unbearable. She had raised the girl’s hopes for something nice in that big box, and now she was bound to be disappointed. Eleanor knew she’d be
a good sport about it, and she resolved to write the check at the end of the day not only for what June was owed but for forty extra. Eleanor would laugh off the suit as a joke and they would both forget about it.

June slit each piece of Scotch tape with a fingernail. She didn’t rip the paper, and it came off practically unrumpled. Before opening the box she carefully laid the Christmas wrap aside. She was prolonging the pleasure of opening her present as long as possible, Eleanor thought bitterly. Wrapping it was a mistake; it made too big a thing out of it.

Gingerly, June drew the tissue leaves apart and gasped. She stroked the fabric. “It’s not the suit in the picture?” Her voice was filled with wonder.

Eleanor nodded, relief flooding her. “I wanted you to have it,” she repeated.

“Oh,” June said softly as she drew it out. The jacket’s color was only slightly faded; it still was subtly rich and inviting. “Look at these buttons,” June said, fingering them. “And the workman-ship!” she said as she looked inside at the neatly stitched lining.

“It was handmade in Paris. I don’t know if I told you that before.”

“Paris!” June held the jacket up against her face. The color was made for her. “Would you mind if I tried it on right now?”

Eleanor flushed with pleasure. “Of course not. Go right ahead.”

When June emerged from the bathroom, Eleanor remembered her mother’s reaction the first time she had tried on the suit. She applauded for June. “I knew it would be just right for you. The coloring suits wonderfully, and you are the exact size I was then.” It was a perfect fit. June twirled spontaneously, rising to her toes, and Eleanor saw the dancer in her.

“Oh, I love it, Mrs. M. It’s the best present anyone ever gave me. I’ll wear it for only special occasions.” June threw her arms around her, and Eleanor’s eyes watered for a moment.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

“I have a present for you, but I’m afraid it’s not half as good as this one.” June drew out a slim package from her backpack. She had curled a mass of red and green ribbon on top, and pasted gold stars all over white tissue paper. Eleanor opened it and held up the scarf.

“It’s lovely, June. You’ve picked up on all the colors I like best. I can wear it with anything.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s not much.”

“It’s beautiful,” Eleanor said. “But you already gave me the presents of the birdseed and the lights.”

“Oh, those were just things to bring over.” June tidied up the wrappings and seemed reluctant to leave. “So, your daughter is coming to get you for dinner on Christmas?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything more for me to do before I go?”

“No, you run along. And have a wonderful holiday with your mother. Thank her again for the birdseed.”

With June gone, Eleanor wandered around the apartment listlessly for a few moments. She turned on the kitchen radio. She had a sudden urge to see pictures of her children when they were young, from Christmases years ago. But the pictures were all packed away, in one of the boxes. She hated opening the boxes— loved how, sealed up, they kept the years contained in perfect order. She hesitated a moment, then got out her scissors and went to find the box marked P
HOTOGRAPH ALBUMS AND SCRAPBOOKS
.