After the Fire (15 page)

“I'm afraid you oversimplify.”

“Then don't be so vague. By the way, what does your partner say about this?”

“He's a professional partner, that's all he is, and this is no concern of his.”

Francine, accepting the rebuke, tried another approach. “You've been well treated in this family, Gerald, like one of our sons. I should like you to think about that before you take such a final, enormous step.”

“You mean the money? I've always been thankful. It was a godsend, and I wanted to repay it, but Jim would not let me. I have every intention of giving it to Hyacinth now, in full.”

“It's not I who gave you the money!” cried Hyacinth in a swift change of mood. “My father did! And I don't want a penny from you. Not like this. A bribe so that you can leave without any trouble and soothe your
conscience? Oh, no! You were right, Francine! You were right!” She jumped up and fled from the room.

“Look what you've done to her, Gerald.”

“It's impossible to talk to Hyacinth. There's always so much wild emotion.” He shook his head. “People divorce these days without tearing themselves apart. They agree to disagree.”

“Well, Hyacinth isn't one of those people. She married you with her whole soul, with passionate love, not a temporary—what did I say before?—a temporary itch.”

“It's not that easy. You don't know the background.”

He was imperturbable, immovable, a hard man. After an hour she had made no impression on him. And forgetting her resolution, she loosed her fury.

“I predicted the ‘background,’ if you remember, after seeing you half a dozen times or less. You're a Don Juan. You change women the way a decent man changes his clothes. No, you never fooled me. She was a match made in heaven for you, my Hyacinth was, a sweet girl, refined and presentable, docile, and mad about you—until you got tired of her. You're bored with her. A whole new world is opening up for you.”

“You're a very smart woman, Francine, as I've said more than once, but this time you're off the mark. Yes, there's a little truth in what you've been saying, but there's a whole lot more than that. A whole lot that I don't care to discuss with you.”

As if to dismiss her, Gerald stood up. “There'll be no fuss and no publicity, I assure you. It will be a painless proceeding, an agreement outside the courtroom. I will
pay the costs, and I will support her as long as she lives. Fair enough?”

“Fair? You bastard! And Jim trusted you! He's turning in his grave.” Francine shook her fist. “Painless? You'll feel plenty of pain before we're through, my friend. Now I'm going upstairs to take care of my daughter, and the next time I see you, you can bet it will be in a courtroom.”

“Your mother took the children to school,” Gerald told Hyacinth when she came down well after nine o'clock in the morning.

“I overslept,” she said.

“It was the pill. You needed it. Are you feeling any better?”

“How can you even ask that?”

“Sit down and have some breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“But you need to eat. When I heard you moving around upstairs, I made French toast for you.” He got up and laid a plate before her. “This is warm, the coffee's hot, and the orange juice is cold. Freshly squeezed, the way you like it.”

She had no desire for food, and yet the very act of seating herself was followed mechanically by the act of taking the fork into her hand. Habit, she thought; we run our lives on its greased wheels. Here we are in this kitchen together, not wanting to be together, but here because we have done it for so many thousands of mornings.

Gerald began: “Your mother and I had some ugly
words last night, and I feel bad about it. But it's hard to talk to her about what's happening without being able to tell her the whole truth.”

“You can't do that, Gerald. Francine has had enough right now. My father died on the pillow beside her. You're not to torment her with this arson talk.”

“Agreed. You have my word. How many times must I give it? Listen to me. If I didn't care about you—”

“About me? No, no. I've had an awakening, Gerald. Francine was right: I wasn't your type, if indeed any one woman could ever satisfy you.” Her words were so caustic that they seemed to burn in her mouth. “You wouldn't have married me if it hadn't been for my father's help.”

Did I know it then, on that cozy winter evening when they played chess together? Did I know it and not want to know it?

“I'm ashamed that I have lowered myself like a jealous fool.”

When he did not answer at once, she saw that he was moved. Then he said very low, “I never planned on a divorce, Hyacinth. Believe me. If it weren't for this fire, I would ask you, as I have asked you, to forgive me. And I would also ask you to go on together. But now that can't be, and I'll tell you why. There's talk about finding the person who set the fire. They're already looking. A cleaning woman who was at work that night in the brick building on the corner claims to have seen a car. The only car parked on the street so late. She remembers thinking that it was odd because nobody lives on that street, and there were no lights in any of the building.
Let's hope she doesn't remember something about the car.”

Hy struggled for air. She saw herself screaming, helpless and hysterical, being dragged away to a hospital, or to a prison. And she crunched her fists in her lap.

“Fortunately, there are no fingerprints, at least so far. Debris and water may have destroyed them, I hope. But you see, you must see, that if you should become involved in this, inevitably I would be, too. And there goes my reputation. What a fine heritage for Jerry and Emma!”

Still struggling for breath, Hy said nothing and only kept looking at him. His hands, long-fingered and graceful, were resting on the table. I used to take them one by one in mine and kiss them, she thought. Once I told him I would have died with him on the
Titanic,
and I would have done it. I would. And all that was on my part, all that love, but never the other way. I see it now. I was so young then, living a fairy tale. Too young.

“You never loved me,” she said. “I suppose I can't blame you. One can't force love. I only blame you for pretending you did.”

“It wasn't all pretense.” Gerald spoke as if he were defending himself. “If it weren't for this fire, for what you've done, we would finish our lives together.”

“No,” she said, “we wouldn't. I couldn't possibly stay in such a one-sided marriage and keep my self-respect.”

This was not what he had expected. He seemed to draw himself up, as if his dignity had been affronted.

“Well, in that case, we should have no problem. You recall how I explained the way we'll do it? No
courtroom, the whole thing uncontested, papers drawn up in the lawyers' offices, no custody argument, no trouble. We've about concluded the deal in Florida, and since I'm buying the house as is, completely furnished and ready to move in, the children and I will be able to leave here by the end of next week. The legal business shouldn't take more than a few months. And I can always fly back to sign whatever needs to be signed.”

It took a few seconds for this to be absorbed by Hyacinth's overburdened brain. “What did you say?” she cried. “You're going to Florida with the children?”

“Yes, of course.” Gerald spoke mildly. “You don't think I can leave them here with you in these circumstances, do you? I thought you understood that I would have to have custody of them.”

A dam burst in Hyacinth. She began to scream. Over and over, her screams rang, choking terrible sounds with which a banshee or a tortured animal tears the air. Gerald ran to the window and slammed it shut. He shook her, grabbed her flailing arms, and slapped her cheeks.

“My God, Hy, it's not that awful.” He was frightened. “It's for their good. I say and swear that you may see them whenever you want. But we have to get them away from here. Can't you grasp that?”

Her teeth were chattering. Never before had her teeth chattered, nor had she had such a fearful pain in her chest. She gasped, “You can't, you can't do this!”

“Lie down,” Gerald commanded. “I want you to lie down in there and listen to me. But first you're going to swallow some brandy. Now listen to me. Take it, I said, it won't hurt you.”

Propelling her into the living room, he put her on the sofa and handed her a glass. She hurled it to the fireplace, where it tinkled and shattered. He poured a second glass, and this time forced it down her throat. “Now lie there, Hyacinth,” he said, speaking not unkindly but as a doctor might give an order to a hysterical patient.

Flattened like a rag doll she lay, thick tears draining toward her temples. Mocking voices kept repeating:
Taking my children from me. Taking my children from me.
They would visit her in a prison. She would be dressed in stripes. They would walk away from her in terror. My children. My life. What has happened to my life? Oh, Jim. Oh, Granny. Oh, God.

Time passed, and her tears ceased. Opening her eyes, she cried, “What are you doing to me, Gerald? Do you hate me so much?”

“Hyacinth, I don't hate you at all. I care about you. But don't you see that it is for their sakes?” The deep, soft voice poured words meant to quiet and calm. Hypnotic in their repetition, they forced her to listen to them.
Or perhaps,
said another part of her brain,
it is the brandy that keeps me lying here while the words flow
.

“We'll do it quickly. We don't want to attract attention. It's for everyone's good, yours especially, Hy. You can't afford publicity. If they know that you and I have had troubles, they will point a finger at you. It's only logical. You don't know what clever detective work can come up with. These cases are never closed. They can open a case years hence. If I were to demand custody in court, I would have to reveal the truth, can't you see that? And remember this: It's best if your mother never finds out. She's a
fighter. I admire her, but she has an idea she can manage anything. If you ever tell her, she'll get lawyers, and the truth will leak to the newspapers, and that will be the end. Good God, I don't want that to happen to you! But a man died, Hyacinth. Remember that, a man died. And don't worry about the children. There's a fine private school, and there's an available nanny, a nice middle-aged woman. No, don't worry about them. Now close your eyes. I have to go out. Your mother should be back soon.”

She was still lying there when Francine returned and stood over her. Now would come the quick questions, demanding to be quickly answered.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No.”

“I saw Gerald making French toast. He said it was for you. Expecting me, I daresay, to be impressed by his kindness.”

“I didn't eat it.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes, we spoke.”

“I didn't even look at him. I'll look at him in court.”

It was no doubt ungrateful of her, but she wished that Francine would go home. There would be so much talking now, and all of it useless, since it would only be circling around a truth that was not to be uttered.

“You need to have some food in your stomach. When did you eat last?”

“Lunch yesterday.”

“Stay there. I'll bring you something.”

Francine made brisk noises. Her heels clacked. In the kitchen, she clattered things. Hyacinth, recognizing the sounds, felt the start of a small, wan smile. It struck her as odd that she was able to smile right now, and yet perhaps it was not so odd: the smile was sad, a reminder of normalcy and of mundane things, like the purr of a refrigerator or the rumble of a furnace.

“I've brought tea,” Francine said, setting the tray on the coffee table. “I couldn't find the coffee. Now eat this egg. You need protein. And I bought these muffins after I dropped the children off at school.”

“Aren't you eating anything?”

“I had breakfast where I bought the muffins. I stayed away so you and Gerald might have your talk.”

Francine's black patent-leather shoe was tapping the carpet. She was nervous. But she said nothing until Hyacinth had finished the breakfast, when she removed the tray and came back with a hairbrush.

“You need a brushing. Turn around,” she commanded, and when Hy obeyed, she assured her, “This will be soothing. Your scalp's all tight. Do you know you have beautiful hair? And don't say it's too straight the way you always do.”

The pleasant tingle and the steady motion of the brush was making Hy feel drowsy again. Once Gerald had explained that, while most people are unable to sleep when they are under stress, some people escape their stress by going to sleep. Maybe I'm like that, she thought. Yes, I guess I am.
Sleep. Perchance to dream. Or never wake up.

“Tell me, did Gerald ever tell you that your hair is beautiful? Or ever say things like that to you?”

“A long time ago, he did.”

Francine made no comment but kept on brushing. How good it would be to tell her everything, to drop it all, past and future, into her lap, as a child comes home from school with his problems and knows that there will be aid for him! But she was not a child and had never wanted to be one; she had taken good hold of life until now. Now though, she was a victim…. And before she could stop it, she gave a long, profound sigh.

Francine put the brush down and, moving to a chair across from the sofa, began the parade of questions that Hyacinth had expected.

“When and where did all this trouble begin? May I ask? In Texas or here?”

There was no sense resisting.
Answer as many as you can,
Hy said to herself.
When you can't answer, you'll tell her so.

“If I look back very thoroughly, I suppose I can find things even as long ago as Texas. And of course one sees more the closer one gets to the now. He flirted. Sometimes he was cross with me, though never with the children. And he hasn't been very—very affectionate. I thought he was overworked.”

“I see.”

There were the double vertical lines on Francine's forehead. And in a sudden access of love for her, Hyacinth cried, “Thank you for not saying ‘I told you so, I predicted it!’ ”

“That's all right, darling. I could just as easily have
been wrong. As a matter of fact, I have been thinking most of the time until yesterday that I was wrong.”