After the Fire (27 page)

“I don't want this to change your relationship with Gerald. The one thing has nothing to do with the other.” And recovering herself, she added with some little pride, “I'm not a spoiler.”

“The last person in the world, Hy. The last.” Arnie threw up his hands. “But dammit all, you can't live here. Listen to me, you've got to get a decent apartment where the kids can come. A nice place near Central Park, where they can play, go horseback riding and stuff. Get your things out of storage, and make it look like something. Has Francine seen this?”

“No. She hasn't been in New York.”

She would be shocked. Moira would be shocked. Anyone who had ever known her would be.

“Oh boy, I can imagine her face when she walks in
here! No, you've got to get a decent place, and the sooner the better. A place near the park, I said.”

“I know I need a place for my children, so they'll be able to visit me. That's why I'm trying to get ahead, trying to fit myself to earn something. But do you know what you're saying? I couldn't pay for a doorknob in the neighborhood you're talking about.”

“That's because you don't know the right people. I've got a guy in mind right now, big real estate mogul. Owes me a favor. I'll get him to find you a rental you can afford. I offered before to help you, but you went ahead without me.”

“Arnie, you're an angel, but even angels don't make a habit of performing miracles.”

“Well, this angel will. You'll see. Do I get a kiss?”

Although she was hoping for the customary friendly kiss, she was prepared for the other kind and so was relieved when the kiss was merely a conventional brush across each cheek before he ran out and down the four flights of stairs.

From the front window, she saw him at the curb waiting for a cab, then catching one and leaping into it. He was intensely masculine, and most women would find him very attractive, she thought. But she did not find him so. They had no interests at all in common. Yet strangely enough, he understood her, and for that she was grateful to him.

He really is a puzzle, she thought again. But then, aren't we all?

T
he movers had departed three days ago, and already the place was in order. Still marveling, Hyacinth stood in the foyer, from which the entire spread—the two bedrooms, the little office or den where she might work and Jerry might sleep, these and all the rest—could be seen. Indeed, she was overwhelmed. Nearer to the East River than to upper Fifth Avenue, where Old Money and New Money both lived in grandeur, the area was prosperous enough to provide comfort and space. In early spring now, there were ginkgo trees greening on the street; you could walk to the river and watch the boats go by, or you could walk westward, not too far, to the great, blossoming park, where she would go on their next school vacation with her children.

In the top drawer of her desk lay a list of the places— the museums and children's concerts, and the Statue of Liberty—that they would visit. She liked to think that
the very sight of that desk, and so many other familiar objects from home, would be meaningful to them and would in some way bind them closer to her again. Inanimate things have strong powers to evoke emotions. Surely, the little round kitchen table would recall the milk and cookies they had so often eaten there after school. Then there was the cuckoo clock, by which they had learned to tell time. But perhaps she was attributing to children an adult sensitivity that they did not yet have. Or perhaps, like some people, they would never have it. And if so, maybe that was all to the good….

Given the comparative size of the former house and the present apartment, it was inevitable that most of her possessions were still in storage waiting for that wonderful future that Francine assured her was coming. Even so, she had given away some of the choicest articles: the bed that she had shared with Gerald, the great leather wing chair with its ottoman on which his feet had rested, and the dining-room table over which he had presided. Now there was nothing here that reminded her particularly of him.

“Wait till you get it fixed up,” Arnie, with his usual enthusiasm, had said on that first day, when he had brought her here to see the apartment.

Vacant then, it had seemed enormous—and shockingly expensive. And so she had exclaimed, “Arnie! You know I can't afford this. You might as well take me to see a Vanderbilt mansion, if they still have one around here.”

He had been very patient. “I told you, Hy, that I could make a deal. You'll pay peanuts for this—provided that you don't let the story leak out. The guy would have half
a million tenants at his throat if you did. Geez, he must own a few thousand apartments. He won't miss a few thousand bucks rent here.”

“It still doesn't make any sense,” she had protested. “It's ridiculous, the little I pay.”

“That's because you don't know anything about business. He owes me a favor, I told you. So pay your rent and enjoy it. Let the kids come and enjoy it.”

That had ended the discussion and should have settled the matter, except that of course Hyacinth herself now owed Arnie a favor, a huge one.

“And there is no way in the world that I can ever repay it,” she had told Francine over the telephone.

“Obviously, he thinks there is, and he's hoping you will.”

If that really should be the case, Hyacinth thought now, I have been very unjust to him in allowing him to get such an idea. But I don't think I have been. What have I ever done to encourage him? Perhaps I should not have accepted this favor. But the temptation had been too great.

And for what must be the hundredth time, she looked around, feeling the atmosphere. It was so blessedly quiet here. The rooms downtown had been battered with noise around the clock; the life of the street and the life inside the old building had seemed to be taking place inside her very head. It was so blessedly light here; the sun and the night sky, equally, laid their glow on the walls and the floor.

Arnie's housewarming flowers had just been delivered, and they were everywhere. There was an arrangement
on the table in the dining ell; an unidentified flowering shrub, probably rare and expensive, stood in a handsome porcelain container between the living-room windows, and on the night table next to her bed stood a tiny vase of pink rosebuds. She went to the telephone to call him at his hotel and thank him.

“You just caught me,” he said. “I'm throwing my stuff into a suitcase to catch a night plane back home.”

“I thought you were staying longer,” she answered for lack of anything more to say.

“Hey, I'm not retired. I work. And this time I didn't have any business in town for an excuse. I came to see you moved in.”

“What a friend you are! You do far too much,” she said, meaning it. “I'm sorry you won't see my mother. She's coming tomorrow, and I thought you might have dinner with us.”

“Your mother? Great. Good thing she never saw the other place.”

“I know. I never would have heard the end of it, would I?”

“And she would be right. I like Francine, in case you're wondering. And do you know why? Because she likes me a lot better than you do.”

“That's not fair, Arnie. I do like you. How could I not?”

“Well, well. We'll let that go.”

“I'm sorry you won't be here for dinner. I'm trying out the kitchen. It's ages since I've cooked anything.”

“Then you must be feeling better,” he said gently. “Isn't that what it means?”

“Not really. It means that I'm learning to survive. It's either that or quit.”

“Don't quit, Hy. Never quit.”

Francine said, as they put the last dish into the washer, “I haven't had a dinner like this in ages. Either I eat out, or else I throw something together for myself, and I needn't tell you the result is not like your result. You're a mystery to me, Hyacinth. You always were.”

Was she going to start another harangue about the divorce and the children? Oh, please not, prayed Hyacinth. No, not this time. Her smile was fond, a motherly smile.

“And here you are, studying fashion of all things, you, the jeans-and-sweater lady.”

“Maybe I've inherited a touch of the fashion business from you. Just the smallest touch.”

Francine reached for a notebook on the living-room table. “They remind me of your paintings, the way you did figures, your father lying in the hammock, or me in my white dress.”

“A lot of fashion people like to paint, too. Some really famous designers started out as sketchers. You show the first sketch to the manufacturer to see whether he's interested.”

“Maybe you'll be one of the famous fashion people.”

The remark was fatuous. Francine had no idea of the competition, of the raw, cutthroat rivalries, the people who promise and fail to keep the promise, the businesses that zoom to the top in favor and collapse before they have barely gotten used to being on top. If I can just
make some sort of a decent living, thought Hyacinth— and thought for the hundredth time—something in a steady way, a bit more dependable than the dresses I sold to the R. J. Miller store…. Always, always, no matter what she might be thinking or doing, at every living minute, that need was there. Without any rational basis, it was there. Even when she was taking pleasure in her work—and as she progressed and did well, it was really pleasurable—the need was there.

Often, in the middle of a conversation, she found herself drifting away. Talking to someone about anything at all, her mind abruptly produced a picture: Jerry, showing all his teeth when he laughed. Or her mind asked a question: It's four o'clock. Are they on their way to the riding school?

Now she forced herself back to the moment, to the pretty room and Francine waiting for her to speak. And isn't it odd that two human beings, unless they are occupied with a book or something specific, cannot be together without talking? It is actually offensive not to talk, as if to say that one is bored, indifferent, or angry.

“I bought something on the spur of the moment this afternoon,” Hyacinth said. “It's something I can't afford, and I can't believe I did it.”

“Let's see it.”

From the hall closet, Hyacinth brought out a roll of multicolored, patterned cloth, unrolled it, and hung it from her arm to display.

“It was in a decorator's window,” she explained. “Upholstery fabric. Feel the weight. But it's no heavier, really, than a genuine Scottish kilt. I thought what a
fabulous skirt it would make. And the colors! Don't they remind you of stained glass, all those cobalts and rubies?”

“It's certainly different.”

“You wouldn't like it?”

“I don't know. When would you wear it, and with what?”

“Wear it anytime you want to. With boots and a thick sweater, or in the evening with a silk shirt and a ruby-and-diamond necklace out of the family vault. But in that case, you should be accompanied by a detective.”

Something about those colors made her feel good in spite of herself, and Hyacinth laughed. “I bought some grass green silk the other day, too. I happened to be downtown and found it on sale.” She did not say that she had bought it at a textile wholesaler's near where she had been living. “It's cheap stuff to start with, but the color is wonderful, and I thought it would be good for cutting practice. I like to practice at home.”

“Let's see it.”

“Look. Isn't it lovely? It reminds me of a lawn after a good rain.”

“And what would you do with this?”

“Drape it very simply. But not so simply that it looks like underwear. Too many things look like underwear, or else like Halloween costumes.”

“Go on. Tell me more.”

“Well of course, it would take a woman with a marvelous figure to wear a simple dress in such a vivid color. A woman with a figure like yours. Would you let me try out the drape on you?”

Francine was amused. “Why not?”

“All right. Let me get some pins. We had a lesson in draping technique yesterday. It's really hard. I'm going to try Grecian folds. Stand perfectly still.” Through a mouthful of pins, she kept on talking. “A plain dress like this ought to be hand-sewn. People don't realize, at least I never did, that hand-sewing is what makes all the difference. It's what you get at the couturiers in Paris. It's what you pay for. Granny could have worked in a place like that. I never realized it until now.”

“How on earth can you talk with that mouthful of pins?”

“Easy. It makes me feel professional.”

Concentrating, she fell silent. For an instant, she saw herself at the easel with a brush in hand; she felt the same peaceful absorption in creating a shape, making something out of nothing. She pinned and took out and pinned again. The material slithered under her fingers. It would go more easily with a firmer, better fabric. The line of the skirt below the hips would be crisper, like the diagonal of a triangle. Still, this was not going to be too bad.

“There's a full-length mirror in the bathroom,” she said at last. “Go in and tell me how you like yourself.”

In a second, Francine returned. “I don't believe it,” she cried. “Putting a dress together in no time. You, Hyacinth.”

“Well, we have big-name designers coming to teach. If you pay attention, you can learn something, that's all.”

“You had this skill before you went there. Don't tell
me everybody in the school picked this up from a few lectures.”

“It's not quite like that. There's a lot of hands-on work, too. Would you like me to sew this for you? Would you wear it?”

“Why, darling, I'd put a sign on it with your name! I'd be as proud as Emma was when you made the rose dress for her.”

At the mention of Emma, there was an instant silence. Francine's sigh was barely audible before, with obvious intent, she spoke cheerfully.

“I see now how art led you into this. Everything's carried over, hasn't it? The sense of form and proportion— it's all there. You know, I have to apologize, Hyacinth. You were right about making this career choice, and I was wrong in objecting. I told myself I had no right to an opinion because I don't know much about art, yet the truth is—well, what you're doing now is really brilliant. This seems almost effortless. This time it's the real you.” She stopped. “I hope I haven't hurt your feelings,” she said softly.