Bereavements (12 page)

They were all in some other city. Some other life. Some other dream.

It
wasn’t
Dori.

Rose told her twice that it was a Mr. Carlson-Wade.

“Who?” (The name did sound familiar.)

“Mr.” (Pause.) “Carlson.” (Pause) “Wade.” Clipped, precise; perfect clarity and volume; bordering on insult and intended to do just that.

“Oh.
Oh!
Goodness, yes! Of course! Put him on.”

The answering voice to her hello was virtually a baritone, a base tenor at least, if there was such a thing: so deep it couldn’t possibly match his age and confessed small size—his five-foot-zero, or whatever.

The call (he said, with some nervous laughter) was an R.S.V.P.—he knew it wasn’t needed, or asked for. But he did want to tell her personally (was his voice trembling?—had he had to summon up courage, purpose, will to make the call at all?) that he accepted her invitation and would be there on Saturday, promptly at three.

That would be fine . . . (taking off one ring of four because it seemed too many). Yes . . . Yes; a confirmation was always helpful. Yes . . . (her gold bracelets jangling).

Should he what?

Tea?—yes, she
had
mentioned tea in her letter; so (he inquired) mightn’t it be a good idea if he brought something? He would like to.

Brought something? Her mind was blank. Such as what?

Well . . . Whatever she suggested. A cake, perhaps. There was a good bakery at his corner. A layer would be nice, wouldn’t it? Did she like coconut? Chocolate? Better yet, why not a half dozen
petit fours?
The bakery was
French
and made simply marvelous . . .

But—But—she
had
a cook, who could make such delectable confections that they would, at the very first bite, promptly curl his toes, and his hair besides. Nevertheless . . . (she said, when he laughed but didn’t speak), nevertheless . . . if his French bakery was so good, why
didn’t
he, after all, yes, why didn’t he bring the
petit fours?

Her cook simply had no talent for those . . .

Angel was, at first, a frightening disappointment, truly a shock. And why not? No one, not even God sitting here, a blinding radiance, would do, or have done. Only Jamie: perfect, whole, resurrected,
un
-dead,
never
-died, was what she wanted. This, her deepest, most-irrational, hopelessly insane heart had devised. And would pursue.

It wasn’t his size—which was more or less right. Or his build, which was finely boyish, promisingly manly. Or his hair, so unlike Jamie’s, but nevermind that: it was wonderfully, humorously wild and beautiful in its carefully shaped and pick-combed “Afro.”

The skin was perfect; not a single mark, blemish or freckle, and darkly, richly mellow in color. Of course, the face wasn’t remotely like Jamie’s, but nevermind that too. It was a fine face, the nose slightly, handsomely flared, the mouth beautiful, sensuous, “full,” and soon enough ripe for the countless women it would please.

The trouble was, he wasn’t, for all her dark dreaming
Jamie.

She had a long way to go yet before she reached that psychic alchemy of desire, fantasy, passion, power,
my
-will-not-Thine, that would change lead into gold.

He rose when she entered, not out of courtesy or good breeding, but only in surprise, in no way expecting what he first heard, and then saw: the rustle of her dress, the jangle of jewelry, a quick young step across a glass-bright floor, and then the woman herself!

Old? Yes; if what the chauffeur had said was true. “Forty or so”—ancient to a child Angel’s age, but not at all looking it, hiding it in some beautiful way; slender, with a dress made of
gold!
and hair that almost matched, smoothed tight against her head like hammered metal. And rings, all shiny green; bracelets—ten or twelve—bright and tinkly as tamborines.

She stood very still staring at him, and while he grinned, chipped tooth and all, feeling as if the corners of his mouth were touching the lobe of each ear, she took a very long time to smile. He thought she never would, but then, there it was: as shiny and warm as the gold of her dress, broadly, deeply generous, like sometimes his father’s, the eyes crinkling so much they almost disappeared.

“Angel,” she said. And that was all. Then his small sweaty hand was clasped in hers, and a cool, smooth cheek, smelling faintly like the altar lilies at Easter mass, gently touched his own.

A vision of a reeking black skeleton in bed, a bony hand waving him away, as it had all his life, almost felled him. He staggered, half-fainting while simultaneously he relived the memory of an orgasm, the frantic, arched spasm of his hips, the wild, jerking cough of his coming against the bold questioning touch of his father’s hand.

Mrs. Evans caught him, steadied him, if not understanding, at least accepting—as she would the sudden dizzying flush of an attack of malaria—this curious, inexplicable moment of passion and trauma.

Concerned but smiling, she pushed him into a cushioned chair as if he were foolishly, disarmingly drunk on too much beer, or had merely stumbled, having caught his foot under the edge of a throw rug.

So, of course, Angel’s surrender to Mrs. Evans was over in one blinding, fractured second: he had given her his heart. It was broken, old before its youth, worthless perhaps, but
hers.

Instantly. Without pause. Without hesitation. Without doubt. Eternally. Forever.

Before Angel’s arrival, Mrs. Evans had questioned Rose about the garden. Would it be too cool to sit outdoors? Had it been swept and hosed down—cleared of the first light fall of autumn leaves? Had anyone dusted the furniture (which was white wrought iron) to make sure it wasn’t coated with its usual daily share of the city’s abominable grime?

Nothing
had been done to the garden; no one had been out there for days. And with time so short, Mrs. Evans decided not only not to express any anger, but not even feel it.

“Well, look at the morning room,” she instructed Rose, with only a slight edge of sharpness in her tone. “If the sun is too bright”—the room, with its wall of floor-to-ceiling windows faced south-west—“draw the blinds halfway; make sure the light is pleasant and” (yes) “flattering. Also, make space, clear the coffee table. I’ll tell Cook we’ll have tea and something . . . hm, sweet . . . suitable for a boy, whatever his age.”

Consequently, as the girl went to the morning room to do as she was told, she was extremely puzzled. The visitor—and this was the first she had heard of him—must be a relative she knew nothing about, and of considerable importance, boy or no. For she had caught a glimpse of her employer as she walked quickly by, rushed words thrown over her shoulder. Mrs. Evans was no longer in black!—shock and puzzle enough—but wore jewelry and make-up and a dress Rose had seen only once, two years ago, at a Christmas party in Palm Beach: an exquisite, long-sleeved, full-skirted fantasy of threaded black and green against a flood of muted gold.

There were preliminaries to eliminate: his age, his last name (“Rivera”), where he lived (“well—‘uptown’ ”) shying away from a specific street address; a bit about his father (“Aurelio”)—handsome, apparently, worshipped but also very much feared—she could see that (and also, remembering her conversation with the man on the phone, rude and uncouth).

Next: Angel’s siblings (he knew the word!), but no, there were none. His grade in school?—well, he was one behind, not because he was dumb; why sh—God! he could get all A’s when it pleased him, but he didn’t go very often—to school, that is (clearly a dedicated truant).

Was his ear actually pierced, or was that bit of shiny silver pasted on? Such a silly question! but designedly so—to make them both laugh.

How could he paste it on! Well—why not?—the way women did sequins: with spirit gum perhaps, or even—even with airplane glue! She remembered—and told Angel—how she had peeled difficult, almost impossible patches of it from her fingers during Jamie’s—her son’s—long preoccupation with model plane building, when she sometimes helped, and the oozing tubes of clear, quick-drying “plastic” were so strong and euphoric to smell that both mother and son had been in danger of becoming happy, deliciously-addicted glue-sniffers!

Sensing an ally, or at least an empathetic bird-of-a-feather, Angel confessed, clearing boasting: “I used to sniff glue a lot. Best way—is in a bag;
you
know: like a brown paper bag. Y’hold it over your mouth and nose, tight, and breathe deep.”

Mrs. Evans was grateful for the advice should she want ever again to sniff glue, but somehow (she said) she had the feeling that her-glue-sniffing days were over. One—
you
know, loses interest in something if one has done it often enough.