A Special Providence (39 page)

“Well, I said I thought he
might
be coming home in May. Maybe it won’t be till June or July. It’s all based on something called the Point System; I don’t really understand it. Anyway, it’s bound to be soon, and I can hardly wait. That’s all I think about, every day. Every time I feel I can’t stand this horrible
job
of mine a day longer, I just close my eyes and think Soon.”

“You’re planning to quit the job then, when he comes home?”

“Well, I know he’ll want me to. He hates my having to work there. And he’ll have a whole year before he can get into college, you see. And can you imagine what I’ll be able to accomplish in a whole year of freedom? I already have enough good work for a one-man show, or at least almost enough. And have I told you about my wonderful new idea?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, it’s going to be marvelous. First of all, do you remember my head of Bobby? The one you always liked so much? The one that was photographed in the
Times?
” And taking a deep, satisfying sip of her drink she allowed her mind to dwell for a moment on that lost, happy year – the time she had created and perfected the one piece of sculpture on which she felt her reputation might rest. Nothing had ever been quite as gratifying as the publication of that photograph. People she hadn’t heard from in years had called up to praise her and to renew their acquaintance, and there had been that memorable call from George. For just a second she was tempted to tell Natalie about that: And have I ever told you what George did? How he called me up and asked for the picture? I really think that was the first time he ever – we ever—

But she checked her impulse, If she got started on that story now it would lead the talk away in another direction.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’ve always thought it was the best thing I’ve ever done. And what I want to do now is the same thing all over again. I want to make a
new
Portrait of the Artist’s Son – a head of Bobby the way he looks now; the way he’ll be when he comes home. A man. A beautiful, sensitive, resolute young man. Won’t that be wonderful? Can’t you picture it? And then you see
that
will become the best thing I’ve ever done. I’ll exhibit them side by side – the boy and the man – and together they’ll be my sort of crowning achievement, the justification for my whole career. Oh, I can’t
wait
to get started on it.” And she severed one of her chicken croquettes with the side of her fork, content to let her voice subside for a while.

“Mm,” Natalie said, picking up her own fork. “That sounds fine, Alice. Really fine. It must be wonderful to have a talent like that.”

But Alice could tell that Natalie wanted her own turn to talk now, and she gracefully yielded the floor. She concentrated on her food, grateful that there was still a deep two thirds of her second Manhattan in the stemmed glass at her elbow. If she was careful with it, taking tiny, well-spaced sips throughout the rest of the meal, it would tide her over until she got back to the apartment – where, luckily, there was still something more than half a bottle of whiskey for protection against the night.

There was, she reflected, a lot of good nourishment in chicken croquettes if you chewed your bites thoroughly before swallowing; there was nourishment too in hot mashed potatoes, even if these were a little watery, and in hot, sweet green peas. Life was good; God was in his Heaven; Bobby would be coming home soon, and there was still nearly two thirds of a Manhattan beside her plate.

Natalie’s mouth was working constantly, her lips and teeth and tongue taking the shapes of gossip, confession, ribaldry, and nostalgia. Alice watched the movement and made her own face a register of smiles, sad looks, and other suitable responses, and she was reasonably sure that Natalie couldn’t tell she had stopped listening.

The Manhattan was gone by the time they’d finished their main course, and Alice felt she couldn’t face a dish of ice cream. “Let’s just skip the dessert, Natalie. I’m really too full, aren’t you? I don’t think I even want coffee.” And all she could think of, as they walked home, was the bottle that stood waiting on the kitchenette shelf.

“You’ll come up for a drink, won’t you, Natalie?” she said as they reached the doorstep. “Please do. It’s much too early to go home.”

“Well—” and Natalie hesitated. “I’d love to, dear, but I really think I’d better get back. Thanks anyway.”

“Oh,
please.
” It came out sounding more desperate than she’d intended, but even so she had to say it again.
“Please
, Natalie. Just for a minute.” And looking anxiously into Natalie’s face she felt a terrible dread of being left alone. She couldn’t possibly climb the stairs alone and go into that ugly apartment alone; she couldn’t possibly sit alone there – or walk alone, pace the floor alone – waiting until it was time to go to bed.

“No, really,” Natalie was saying, taking several backward steps on the sidewalk. “Really, Alice, I’d better get back. I’ll call you during the week, all right?”

Natalie’s face, withdrawing now in the harsh light of the streetlamp, was suddenly a mask of insincerity. How ugly and old she is, Alice thought, and it seemed odd that this had never occurred to her before. She wanted to say, Natalie, I don’t really like you at all, and I never have. Instead she said, “All right. Goodnight.”

And she was alone. But the whiskey bottle was in the apartment, as faithful as any friend. Still breathing hard from the stairs, she locked the door firmly behind her and poured herself a stiff drink even before she had taken off her hat. Then, taking her time, she went about the business of getting out of her clothes and into an old, torn bathrobe that was almost as comforting as the drink. She was ready for the night.

Early in the next month, June, she received a letter from Bobby enclosing a postal money order for three hundred dollars, which he said he had earned by selling cigarettes on the black market in Paris. He wrote that he had decided to take his discharge overseas and go to live in England, where he would either find a job or enroll in an English university – he hadn’t yet decided which.

In July, she received another letter with a London postmark and no return address, enclosing a money order for one hundred dollars, which he explained was half of his mustering-out pay. He said he was out of the Army now, and feeling well, and that he would write again soon. He wished her luck.

A
LSO
B
Y
R
ICHARD
Y
ATES

“Soft-spoken in his prose and terrifyingly accurate in his dialogue, Yates renders his characters with such authenticity that you hardly realize what he’s done.
”—The Boston Globe

YOUNG HEARTS CRYING

In
Young Hearts Crying
, Yates movingly portrays a man and a woman from their courtship and marriage in the 1950s to their divorce in the 70s, chronicling their heartbreaking attempts to reach their highest ambitions. Michael Davenport dreams of being a poet after returning home from World War II Europe, and at first he and his new wife, Lucy, enjoy their life together. But as the decades pass and the success of others creates an oppressive fear of failure in both Michael and Lucy, their once-bright future gives way to a life of adultery and isolation. With empathy and grace, Yates creates a poignant novel of the desires and disasters of a tragic, hopeful couple.

Fiction/Literature/978-0-307-45596-3

REVOLUTIONARY ROAD

In the hopeful 1950s, Frank and April Wheeler appear to be a model couple: bright, beautiful, talented, with two young children and a starter home in the suburbs. Perhaps they married too young and started a family too early. Maybe Frank’s job is dull. And April never saw herself as a housewife. Yet they have always lived on the assumption that greatness is only just around the corner. But now that certainty is about to crumble. With heartbreaking compassion and remorseless clarity, Richard Yates shows how Frank and April mortgage their spiritual birthright, betraying not only each other, but their best selves.

Fiction/Literature/978-0-375-70844-2

VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES
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