Family Happiness (10 page)

“And after that,” Polly had suggested, “there's always law school.”

“I've thought of that,” said Martha. “I love the process of learning a thing. It's doing a thing I find so boring.”

In addition to being a genius, Martha claimed to be intensely neurotic. “I have had many years of expensive psychotherapy,” she said. Certainly she was devoted to her moods. She was alternately furious, depressed, gloomy, silly, or simply full of good spirits. Polly was very fond of her and looked forward to the days when Martha, who worked on a free-lance basis, was in the office. Polly had never had an office friend before.

At the sight of Martha in the doorway Polly cheered up. Martha's volatility made her the least exacting presence Polly had ever encountered. After all, she did not expect consistency from anyone else. As a result, Polly felt free to be any old way she pleased. This was as refreshing as several weeks at a spa, especially now that Polly generally felt so low or agitated or distraught, and most of the time struggled to conceal it.

“Hello, there,” said Martha. “I've been pounding on your door.”

“I was a little distracted,” Polly said.

“You're a lot distracted, it looks like. What's up?”

“My brother Paul is getting married.”

“Really! He's pretty old, isn't he? Who's he marrying?”

“Somebody nobody knows,” Polly said. “This is a real bolt from the blue. My family likes to gather on every occasion, so we're gathering.”

“My family can't stand it when they're all in the same room,” said Martha. “I can't remember any family occasion on which we didn't have a fight. I'm not sure whether I think you're lucky or not.”

“It's nice to have a united family,” Polly said.

“It sounds like living hell to me,” said Martha. “But now, for instance. Do you like your brother Paul? Everything you say about him makes him sound awful. You say he's silent and preachy and everyone is scared of him.”

It had never really occurred to Polly to ask herself whether she
liked
her brother Paul or any other member of her family. They were
family
. They were not judged by the standards you might apply to other people.

“He's my brother,” said Polly. “I love him.”

“A beautiful sentiment,” Martha said. “I quote my old dad, who says that everything is relative except relatives, who are constant.”

“Another beautiful sentiment,” said Polly. “Now I have to run five hundred errands, and I've got to meet a friend, and I've got to go to the liquor store and the cheese shop and the bakery.”

“Quite a little schedule,” Martha said. “Big family dinner party?”

“They're all big.”

“If you need any help,” said Martha, “just ask. I could run an errand for you. I like to help out a person who likes their family and, as you can imagine, this leaves me with lots of time on my hands.”

By the time Polly met Lincoln for lunch she was wilted. She had rushed out of the office, rushed back because she had forgotten to call Henry about the brandy, remembered that she was going to get the brandy herself, and rushed out again. The bakery was jammed and so was the cheese store. Still, she had five minutes to spare, so she bought two pounds of salted almonds, the only hors d'oeuvre of which Wendy approved. Lincoln was waiting for her in front of the Sublime Salad Works.

“Look at you,” said Lincoln. “You didn't wait for me. You've done all your errands and now I have nothing to carry in my teeth.”

“I ought to buy some cigars and an extra bottle of champagne. And I have to get a bottle of brandy after lunch,” Polly said. “This was so nice of you, to come up here and have lunch with me.”

“It'd better be worth it,” said Lincoln. “Is this Sublime Salad Works as sublime as its name?”

“It's convenient,” Polly said. “That is, if you can get the waitress to take your order. They're all art students and actresses.”

The Sublime Salad Works was crowded, but Polly and Lincoln managed to squeeze into an uncomfortable table for two. When the waitress finally appeared, it turned out she had forgotten her pad, and when she came back she had forgotten where she had put her pencil and was forced to borrow a conte crayon from Lincoln, who had made a stop at the art-supply shop. Polly ordered the Swiss Health, which was described on the menu as “A life-affirming medley of low-calorie Swiss cheese, a piquant julienne of hearty beet, tender carrot, and powerful high-energy dressing.” Lincoln ordered the Sublime Works, a salad that included crab meat. Eventually the waitress brought Polly a Chef's Salad and Lincoln the Egg Salad Supreme.

“It's hopeless,” Polly said. “I never get what I order here and I always order the same thing. I ask for Swiss Health and as a result I have had everything on the menu.”

It didn't much matter, because Polly was low on appetite. As they sat over their second cups of coffee, Lincoln held her hand under the table.

“Come along now, Dottie,” he said. “Try to eat. You have to keep your strength up.”

“I feel all broken down, Linky,” Polly said.

“You're a fine figure of a woman,” said Lincoln.

“The funny thing is,” Polly said, “I've had such a charmed life, really. Now suddenly everything is out of kilter. I used to be so full of energy. Now I don't look forward to anything. I used to be so positive. It isn't right for a person like me to feel awful. I'm not supposed to. I tell myself over and over: My life is full of blessings. Including you.”

“Everybody goes through this,” Lincoln said. “It's part of growing up.”

“Not in my family.”

“Your family was put on earth to make everybody, including you, feel like hell.”

“Linky, you don't know them.”

“I know one thing,” Lincoln said. “For all this gathering and family unity, you can't go to them and they make you feel bad.”

“Family is just there to be family, Linky,” Polly said. “They're my tribe. They don't have to know the secrets of my innermost heart.”

“You're the only member of your tribe who has an innermost heart,” Lincoln said. He looked up. “There's a child over there waiting for a table who's staring at you.”

There in the doorway was Martha Nathan. The sight of her caused Polly to blush, but she motioned her over anyway.

“It's Martha,” Polly said. “You've never met her.”

“You better get that blush off you before she gets here,” Lincoln said. “You look like the Woman Taken in Adultery.”

“Hi, Martha,” Polly said when Martha appeared. “Come sit down. There's a free chair over there.”

“Oh, no,” Martha said. “I've just come to read this article and bolt my lunch.” It was perfectly clear that she had sized up the situation in one glance.

“Oh, sit,” Polly said. “Martha, this is my friend Lincoln Bennett. Lincoln, this is Martha Nathan.”

“I'm starving,” said Martha, sitting down. “I guess no one will take my order. Is that girl a waitress or a customer? It's so hard to tell in these places. Oh, miss!”

An extremely sullen girl meandered over to the table.

“I'd like to order,” Martha said. “What can I get fastest?”

“Our salads are all handcrafted,” said the waitress.

“Bulgarian Eggplant Salad,” Martha said, “and a cup of coffee right away, unless the coffee is handcrafted, too.”

“I didn't get that,” the waitress said.

“Yes, you did,” said Martha. “Bulgarian Eggplant and a coffee. Just because you went to a progressive high school and studied modern dance at college doesn't mean you can't remember a simple order.”

“How did you know that?” the waitress asked.

“A child could tell,” said Martha.

“How
did
you know that?” Polly said.

“It's a snap. Modern dancers are a type. They all wear the same clothes. Everyone who went to progressive school holds a pencil funny. They don't teach them how to write till they're about twelve or thirteen. When they
feel
like learning.” She looked at Lincoln. “I bet you're a painter.”

“I am,” said Lincoln. “You can tell from the paint on my sweater, my large bag from the art-supply store, and my sensitive, soul-stricken look.”

They chatted with Martha until Lincoln could see how nervous Polly was.

“Okay, Dottie,” he said. “Let's go run the rest of your errands and leave Martha to her handcrafted salad.”

“She knows,” Polly said when they got outside.

“Of course she does,” Lincoln said. “But you can always say that I'm your little brother's pal. And besides, what would it matter if she did know?”

They were walking slowly toward the tobacconist's. Polly suddenly stopped. She looked exhausted and grim.

“Come on, Dot,” Lincoln said softly. “You'll be all right.”

“I don't know if I will,” she said and pressed her face against Lincoln's shoulder. “Oh, Lincoln, I wish I knew.”

That evening, as Polly left the office, it began to snow. There was not a taxi in sight and the bus, as it inched its way up the avenue, was packed. Polly had her briefcase, her handbag, and two large shopping bags containing the ten baguettes, the cheeses, salted almonds, a box of cigars, a large box of her family's favorite chocolate, two bottles of champagne, and a bottle of brandy. It was almost certain that one of the shopping bags would split. She had not worn boots or taken a scarf. As she got off the bus, one of the packages began to disintegrate and it was necessary to hold it in her arms. Snow blew into her eyes. She felt that juggling this many things was beyond her—she, who had juggled babies and prams and strollers and packages at the same time. She felt like throwing herself and everything else into the street.

Polly had had her adolescent swivets, her bouts of nerves, her small heartaches. She had read, good student of literature, novels in which great unhappiness and emotional tragedy unfolded. She knew these states of feeling existed. She had sat on the deck of an ocean liner going to France on her honeymoon and read
Anna Karenina
. Heroines in literature fell from grace little by little. Small mistakes were emblematic of terrible flaws. Suddenly the truth was revealed: these flaws were chasms, magnified and compounded. The heroine was then exiled from optimism, cheer, security, and the safety of the right thing. Did nice people ever feel this miserable? Lincoln said they did, but Polly did not really know many people outside her family; and no one in her family, she was sure, had ever felt the way she felt, or if they had, they had triumphed over it in secret. Her distress frightened her. It was not because she had fallen in love with Lincoln. It was what allowing herself to fall in love revealed: that everything was wrong.

Once at home, she flung her packages on the kitchen table. Both split, spilling out the contents. Pete and Dee-Dee came to the door and gave her a desultory kiss. They knew she was going out for the evening, and she was therefore of limited use to them.

Concita Croft, the housekeeper who came in on Polly's three workdays, had put the children's dinner in the oven.

“Hi, Polly,” Concita said. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” said Polly. “Did Nancy Jewell call?” Nancy Jewell was a sixteen-year-old girl who lived in the building and often baby-sat.

“She'll be here at seven,” Concita said.

“I'm going to make a cup of tea,” said Polly. “Do you want one, too?”

“Okay,” Concita said. “Mr. D. called. He says he'll meet you at your parents', but he might be a little late. And the housepainter called. He said to call if you had the time.”

“The housepainter?” said Polly. She looked at the number and went to the telephone. She dialed, hung up, and dialed again. Lincoln almost never called her at night, and never if he knew Henry was in town.

“It's only me, Dottie,” Lincoln said when he picked up. “Your housepainter.”

“Yes,” said Polly.

“I just called to tell you how swell you are, and that everything will be all right. You know that, don't you?”

“I don't know,” Polly said.

“I do,” said Lincoln. “Have a wonderful time tonight and make mental notes of everything. I want dress, behavior, and any interesting, revealing, or bizarre remarks. I love you, Dot.”

“Thank you,” said Polly, and they both hung up.

Six

Beate von Waldau was one-half of a set of twins. She and her brother Karlheinz, who was called Klaro for short, looked exactly alike—tall, bright-eyed, hawk-faced, with the same sleek dark beautifully cut short hair. It was hair of the sort you want to pet, like beaver fur, but otherwise the first impression they made was forbidding and standoffish, in the way of modern furniture. They had elegant, bare lines. Their clothes were expensive and modern. To Polly they looked as chic as a pair of chairs by Mies van der Rohe. Klaro wore heavy gold cuff links and a gold watch identical to his sister's. Both had long, strong fingers. After careful scrutiny, Polly correctly guessed that they were forty-four.

The formality of this meeting militated against anyone's sitting down. The family stood clustered around the fireplace, fanning out from a center composed of Beate and Klaro, with Paul next to Beate. They drank chilled vermouth but no one touched the large silver bowl of salted almonds. Wendy had filled the house with forsythia and quince branches. There was nothing, she felt, so nice as the sight of spring branches near a wood fire. She was thrilled that it was snowing. Snow, a wood fire, and flowering quince in combination was her idea of sheer perfection.

Beate was saying, “I have lived in New York for eighteen years, but Klaro lives still in Berne, where we were raised.” Polly watched her mother's face smooth out. A Swiss! What a tremendous relief. In these situations, Wendy was a master of disguise, and only her nearest could read her. Her best reader was Polly, the only one who paid close enough attention. The look on Wendy's face was complicated, but Polly knew what it said. Wendy was surveying her two sons and their European mates. “If only,” her expression seemed to say, “Henry had not married Andreya, and Paul was not going to marry Beate, they would be free to marry …” A frown creased Wendy's forehead, for the logical conclusion to her sentence was that they would be free to marry each other.