After the Fire (17 page)

At the end of the walk, she turned back to the house. There she stopped to read again, and yet again, a clipping that Gerald had just put into her hand: “Reopening of 4-Year-Old Mysterious Case of Arson.”

F
irst, after closing the doors of Emma's and Jerry's rooms so that she would not have to look inside, Hyacinth cleaned the house. The bed, which up until a few weeks ago she had shared with Gerald, had to be totally refreshed. The heavy mattress had to be reversed, and she would do it even if it were to break her back. The perfectly clean quilt must be sent to the cleaners, and the pillows replaced. His clothes closet must be scrubbed; even empty as it now was, she could smell his cologne. There was to be no vestige of him anywhere, not in the garage where he had forgotten a torn old umbrella, nor in the hall closet where he had forgotten his new raincoat. Up and down through the house she went, lugging the vacuum cleaner and a basket of dusters, furniture wax, brass polish, and anything else she could think of.

Her thoughts were as frantic as her legs and arms.

How can I live with these thoughts? Right here in town in the cemetery on Grove Street lies a man who
died because of what I did. His children will grow up without him—and my children will grow up without me. How can I bring them back? How?

The telephone rang. Oh, please don't let it be Moira again! She's tactful, she stays away because she knows I don't want to see anyone. Still, I can't keep telling her the children aren't in school because Gerald has taken them on a short vacation. She doesn't believe me. It's a stupid excuse, but the only thing I can think of. I'm not thinking very well.

It was Francine. This was the third time today. Her voice was anxious, her question plaintive.

“Are you sure you don't want me to drive over, Hyacinth?”

“It's a two-hundred-mile round trip for nothing. But thank you anyway.”

“Don't be formal with me. If I weren't able to make the drive, I wouldn't offer. You might remember that I care about you.”

Dreading another round of insistent questions, Hyacinth sighed.

“I hear you sighing.”

“You think it's that I don't want you. The truth is, I don't want anybody right now. I need to be alone, to get my thoughts together, not that my thoughts are worth much.”

“What have you been doing today?”

“Cleaning house. Throwing things out, things like our wedding photograph, for instance.”

Now Francine sighed. “Take care of yourself, Hyacinth. Call me if you need anything. Promise?”

Like a mother, Hy thought. And she thought again, she could have said “
I told you so
,” and she hadn't done it. If I had only listened to her! But then there would be no Jerry, no Emma. My babies. In his hands. “This rage will ruin me,” she said aloud. “I have to stop it.”

For several days, she did not leave the house. Outside, the afternoon glowed with primary colors. The first yellow maple leaves, a few fluttering red oak leaves, and over all a pure, cloudless sky. Winslow Homer would have painted this sky. She herself had not touched a brush or even entered her studio in weeks.

Without making any determination to do it, she sprang up, took a sweater, and left the house. There was time enough before the shops closed to get to the bookstore and send two books to Emma and Jerry. Jerry was always pleased to read to Emma. It would make him feel proud and superior. She had a vision of them sitting on the floor, or on the bottom step—but what floor, or what step? Arnie said that the children's rooms overlooked a waterway, and that the house was beautiful.

To get to the bookstore, she had to pass what was left of the office, a scorched relic, its windows like blind eyes. The shine of prosperity and authority was gone, destroyed like the fire of her first love.

A woman in passing stopped next to Hyacinth, stared, and murmured, “Horrible. They say it was deliberately set. I wonder whether they'll ever find out who did it.”

“I wonder.”

Not wanting to have any further conversation, she went on toward the bookstore. The wreckage had
produced in her mind a vivid picture of a man falling through flames. The scream of terror! The agony! An ice-cold shudder penetrated her bones. Yet if I were to spend the rest of my life in prison, she thought, it would not bring him back. All this accident has done is to give Gerald an excuse for getting rid of me, which, perhaps not even fully realizing it, he had long been wanting. So now he is free.

We made such a nice couple, or so I always thought, both of us in our house, at our table with guests, or on the lawn with our lovely children; an enviable couple we must have been to many who were not as fortunate as we. How deceptive is the surface!

At the bookstore, still in this frame of mind, she bought an easy storybook for Jerry and a picture book for Emma that was filled with animals; many of these were horses, in preparation for the promised visits with Arnie to the Florida stables.

The man at the counter was friendly and talkative. He, too, bought books for his grandchildren, he said, for they were the most valuable present you could ever give to a child. A well-spoken man, he could have been a teacher. Yet in spite of his friendly talk, he was nervous, “new on the job,” as he explained. Observing his wrinkled shirt and shabby tie, Hyacinth was touched. What had brought him here, no longer young yet still unsure of himself? She tried to imagine his life, but of course could not, any more than he could possibly imagine hers.

It was a long way home, but Hyacinth walked slowly. There was no reason to hurry. Nobody waited for her.
The autumn equinox was only a few days away, and dusk fell abruptly at the end of the short afternoon, so that lights were already shining in some windows. Where no shades were drawn, you could see people in kitchens, or a dining table with chairs around it, ready for use.

Arrived at the foot of the driveway, she looked up at her own house, where no lights were lit. A queer sensation flowed through her body, a feeling of emptiness, a feeling of having no feelings, where for so many weeks past she had been churning with conflicting emotions. She had been a pot about to boil over.

All of sudden, there was nothing to do. After her fanatical cleansing, the house was antiseptic, and no single possession was even an inch out of place. The spotless refrigerator was almost empty. Women living alone were apt to neglect their nourishment; well aware of that, it was nevertheless too much trouble for her to prepare any food. So, taking a pear and an apple, she sat down on the sofa and was starting to read the newspaper when the telephone rang.

Jerry's hearty voice blared in her ears. “Mommy! We have a puppy! Daddy took us where they have so many puppies, and we picked out our own. Then we bought him two dishes, one for water and one—”

A scream interrupted the account. “Let me! I want to tell Mommy! You know what kind he is? A tannel, he's a tannel.”

“He's a spaniel, stupid, a King Charles spaniel. That's why his name is Charlie.”

“I'm not stupid! Mommy, he's brown and white. His tail is mostly brown, and I love him.”

Her heart was pounding so! Where a moment ago there had been chill vacancy, now all was melting soft and warm.

“I'll send you a picture of him,” Jerry said. “Uncle Arnie bought me a camera—”

“It's for me, too.”

“You don't know how to use it.”

Now Arnie's voice came. “I'm going to show Emma how to use it, Jerry. I meant it for both of you. Let me talk to your mother a minute when you are both finished.”

She wanted to hold them on the telephone. She could have listened to them all night. And her questions flew. As soon as one was answered, she had another.

Yes, school was nice. It had a red roof. Jerry had a friend, really two friends, because they were twins, Jeff and Larry, and they were
ezackly
alike, ezackly! And Emma went swimming yesterday. Wasn't it too cold? No, it was not in the ocean, it was warm, in a pool. Didn't Mommy know they had pools in Florida?

“And palm trees,” Jerry added. “We don't have any at home. When are you coming here, Mommy?”

“Soon,” said Hyacinth, and corrected herself, “I'm going to try to come soon. May I speak to Uncle Arnie now?”

“I know what you want to ask,” Arnie said. “Everything's just fine. Believe me. I would tell you if it wasn't.”

“But are you able to talk right now?”

“Yes, Gerald's still at the office. I took an afternoon off and stopped here to leave some papers for him. Yes, everything's fine.”

“Just say—do they miss me?”

“There are questions about ‘
when
.’ You understand? But contented and busy.”

“I thought about Thanksgiving. If I could come then and see them at my hotel? I don't want to go to that house.”

“I understand. Let's see what we can arrange. I always tell you that I'm neutral, and I have to be, but I'm with you, too, if that's not a cockeyed contradiction.”

“Bless you, Arnie.”

After this conversation, she cried a little, controlled herself, and returned to the newspaper in which she, an always eager reader, now found nothing of interest. Then she went, as she often did, into the deserted studio, there to stand in silent contemplation of her work. There was nothing more recent than last year's picture of Fran-cine and Emma sitting on the garden bench in front of a butterfly bush. It was the sort of scene that the Impressionists always did so beautifully, and Hyacinth was not so foolish as to rank herself with any of them. Yet as she looked with a critical eye at her own work, she knew it was good. Indeed, it was very good.

Still, in these present circumstances, she could not— nobody could—expect to find inspiration or energy for art. Oh, she would go back to it! She must. But not yet, not today.

Downstairs again, she put on a disk with quiet piano music and lay down on the sofa in the den, knowing well that she had been spending too much time on that sofa, dozing, waking, fighting her fears, and struggling to find some way out of the morass.

It was cold. Soon it would be time to start up the furnace. The very thought of the long, dark winter that was approaching made it seem colder still, and rising, she went to the hall closet, where an old shawl of Granny's had been lying since her last visit months ago. The color was a dull maroon that Granny liked and Hy did not, but it was warm, not only of itself but because Granny had made it. Wrapping it over her shoulders, Hyacinth lay down again. After a while, her thoughts began to float along with the tranquil nocturne. All the sweaters, afghans, and little dresses for Emma that Granny's hands had made!

And suddenly, she remembered something else:
We never went back for the dress in Paris
. Such a lovely dress it was, with roses running down the front, and the rosy shoes to match. She could still see every detail of it. With a little patience—no, a good deal of patience—she could copy it, she could make a Paris copy for her Emma.

Having sewn many a doll's dress in her time, she knew exactly how to go about it. With a sewing machine, she could have completed it in a day. But she had none, and anyway, the French dress had been handmade. If you were particular—or, as some people might call it, “fussy”—you could certainly tell the difference. The tiniest scissors were to separate each leaf and petal from the flowered cloth, and the tiniest, invisible stitches were to apply them to the fine white linen background. This was to be a small piece of art.

Working several hours every day until her eyes got tired, she finished it in a week. With some surprise, she
realized that it had taken all of her attention in the same way that a painting did.

Now she made a plan. She would take this dress to Florida herself, perhaps for Thanksgiving. Arnie had promised to help her, and he would arrange the visit. Gerald would be ashamed to make any objection to it. Francine had also mentioned a visit to the children, so perhaps they would go together. The children loved her. And if she would promise to ask no nagging questions or make reproaches, it could be very pleasant to go together.

Armed with this first ray of hope in so long, Hyacinth took the dress with her and went out to the local department store intending to find a pair of shoes for Emma.

The R. J. Miller Company faced the town square. Now part of a small chain, it was the place that natives of the town liked to recall as the source of their baby clothes, their prom dresses, and their bridal gowns. Hyacinth, by now a steady customer, went directly to the shoe department, there to find, as she had expected, that there was no rose-colored match.

The saleslady, who knew both Hyacinth and Emma, remarked that white shoes would be better than black patent leather. “It's such a darling dress. Do you mind telling me where you bought it?”

“I made it. I remembered one I had seen in France.”

“You made it yourself? What a lot of work that must have been! I'd love to show it to Mrs. Reynolds up in dresses. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” It was good, after so much silence at
home, to have even a few minutes' conversation with anyone who didn't know her well enough to ask questions.

“Jerry hasn't been in school, Kevin says. Oh, Florida with his father? Do they plan to rebuild the office in the same place?”

And then she heard Moira, very gently:
“I'm not going to bother you, Hy. Whenever you're ready to talk, let me know. Let me know how I can help you.”

“This is really outstanding,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “I'd like the buyer to see it. She's in the office waiting for Mr. Miller. I'll ask her to come out if you have time.”

All the time in the world.

The buyer, Sally Dodd, a smart young woman in black, was also impressed. “It has that French look. Well, not every French look these days. But it does have charm.” Stepping back, she regarded the dress. “It's interesting. Do you realize that anybody of any age can wear it? Have you thought of doing one like it in an adult size?”

“Not really.”

“Would you consider it if I wanted one for myself?”

Hy was astonished. “Well, I don't know. I'm not a professional. I mean—I don't know. Sewing isn't even a hobby for me.”