Homecoming (9 page)

You grow quickly attached to a person who glorifies you, provided, naturally, that the person is otherwise attractive. When she was back at college Kevin’s nightly telephone calls gave her something to anticipate all day and something to look back upon with a sense of fulfillment. As often as possible she now went home for weekends, which was something she had never done before. Once Kevin drove up for a weekend, and they spent a few hours at a motel, which was also something she had never done before.

“Ellen’s a simple girl,” said those who knew her best. “She has always had very few wants.”

Now suddenly she wanted life to be lavish, not in any material sense, but in the amorous and sensual. Reliving evenings that her parents assumed were being spent at the theater or similar places, she bought expensive underwear and perfume. She knew she was envied, except perhaps by her radical feminist friends.

She went through finals, did very well, and was
graduated in May. She had invited Kevin because he said he wanted to come, so there he stood with her parents and Gran, among the crowd that saw her go past with the robed academic procession. Everyone knew, yet properly, no one ventured a word about what was coming next.

It came in Kevin’s apartment later that week. On the twenty-second floor she was looking out at the view, the spread and sparkle across the Hudson, north to the bridge that spanned it and south toward the tip of the island, where it met the bay.

“It seems,” she murmured, “that in this city, the first thing people want in an apartment, if they can afford it, is a view.”

“That depends. This has been nice for me, but for the long pull I like the kind of place where you live, lower down and near the park, so our children could play there, the way you did.”

She turned about. This was the greatest moment in her life, she thought. Why didn’t she cry or feel something incredible? She felt merely pleased, quite pleased. But it was, after all, no surprise. She threw her arms around him, and they kissed, a very long kiss.

“I take it the answer is yes. And with that in mind I came prepared. Here it is.”

“It,” of course, was the brilliant ring, the family ring that had been kept for Kevin’s bride. Now everything was sealed, sealed and soon to be signed. They would have to wait not quite a year until he should be established in Paris. In the meanwhile he would have to be traveling back and forth for the firm to other parts of Europe. And in the meanwhile there was great rejoicing. His parents arrived from Ohio, were invited to a celebration dinner, and to another one at Gran’s place in the country. There were champagne and flowers; there were toasts. A lucky man, Kevin was. A lucky woman, Ellen was.

She was very well aware of all that on the day she walked home after the encounter in the gallery on Fifty-seventh Street.

Her mother was resting on the sofa in the library. Almost every afternoon during this past year she rested. And still, not wanting to admit the extent of her illness, she pretended surprise at herself. Her apology hurt Ellen’s heart.

“I don’t know what got over me today. The drowsy spring weather, I guess. Kevin phoned
from Paris, dear. I told him you weren’t home yet. He’ll call back at five.”

At five precisely as always, the call arrived. “I’m missing you terribly,” he said.

“And I you.”

“What did you do today? Don’t you get off earlier on Wednesdays?”

“Yes, but I took a walk afterward.”

“Where did you go?”

Kevin had a habit of wanting detailed explanations for everything, which was sometimes bothersome to Ellen, but still, since he willingly gave such explanations for his activities, she really should not let it be bothersome to her.

“Went around looking into galleries.”

“Did you see anything you liked?”

“Yes, for thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“Well, I can’t promise you anything in that range, darling. But I’ll tell you, there’s an art gallery in almost every fair-sized town in France, and they’re not always too high priced either. Wait till you get here. You’ll see a lot of landscapes, the kind you’ll love. What’s the weather like over there?”

“A wonderful spring afternoon, warm and soft.”

“That’s a perfect description of you. It’s rained here all day, and it’s still pouring tonight. What are you doing this very minute?”

“I was just emptying my handbag. It’s full of junk.”

“I was counting the minutes until five o’clock. Now I’m going to turn off the light. Big busy day tomorrow.”

When she hung up, Ellen sat with the handbag on her lap, tossing things into the wastebasket: a worn-down lipstick, a torn handkerchief, a piece of a candy-bar wrapper, and a card.
Mark Sachs
, it read, under the name of the gallery.

Momentarily, she felt a tiny pang of regret. Wouldn’t the young man have been astounded if she had said, “Yes, I love it, I’ll take it”? She would have enjoyed seeing his face, but that was absurd. She tore up the card and tossed it, too, into the basket.

About two weeks later Ellen walked through Fifty-seventh Street carrying a pair of shoes that she had just bought. The shop windows were
filled with colorful objects; adult toys, she called them, even while enjoying them. There in the gallery’s window was “her” painting. Really lovely, she thought, and was wondering to herself whether, ridiculous as it was, she might try to paint something like it: a brook in falling snow, dark water, dark bare trees, the sky to be light gray, almost white—

“So you’re still thinking about it?” And there was her salesman, coming through the door.

“No, I can’t possibly do it. The only reason I said I’d think about it was that I wanted to make an easy exit.”

He smiled. “People do that all the time. It’s understandable.”

“What I’m really thinking about is how I might try to paint something like it.”

“You’re an artist?”

“I don’t dare say that. I’m a would-be artist.”

“Even the greatest had to start.”

There came then a pause with nothing to fill it, and she moved away from the window.

“Going east or west?” he asked.

“West to Fifth and then uptown.”

“So am I.”

They walked to the corner, waited at the red light, and turned north. She felt awkward and foolish to be keeping step with this total stranger and having nothing to say.

Mark Sachs
was his name. She remembered how it had looked on the card, discreet and refined, almost like engraving.

“Nice to get through early,” he said. “We’re not all that busy this time of year. Nice to get some air.”

“It’s not too hot to walk, for a change. I’m going to get off the avenue and go through the park.”

“So am I. Whenever I visit my parents on Central Park West, I like to cut through the park and out at the natural history museum. That gives me about a mile and a half’s worth of exercise, anyway.”

The dialogue was now slowly starting up.

“They’ve done wonders over at that museum. But my love is always art museums. I thought that after graduation I’d get a great job in one right away, but the great job hasn’t turned up. They never tell you how hard it is to find one. So I’m working in the museum shop, which is fun,
and I’m hoping it will—who knows?—lead to something.”

“I took my job the same way. I knew I wanted to do something in the art world. I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. Maybe if I’d grown up in the West, I’d be a sheep rancher, I don’t know. So I got an MBA with the thought that I’d eventually own an art gallery.”

Some little boys were playing with toy boats at the pond. For a moment they stood watching.

“What would New York be without the park?” Ellen wondered aloud. “I played with boats right here. I actually grew up in this park. It feels like home, as if I owned it.”

“Same with me, from roller skates to baseball.”

“You must live right across from me. I’m near the art museum, and you’re near the Natural History.”

“No, I have an apartment in the Village with two friends from college. It’s just my parents who live uptown. I try to visit them on Wednesdays.”

“That’s nice. I’ve been living at home since graduation last May because I—” And with a feeling that these explanations, made to a stranger, were really uncalled for, she stopped.

He looked at his watch. “Well, I’m early for dinner. They’ll be surprised.” Their paths were branching, yet he still was not walking away. “It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, and, looking at her own watch, remarked, “yes, early for dinner, but there’s nobody home to be surprised. They’re in Maine.”

“So you’ll prop up a book while you eat alone? That’s what I like to do.”

This situation was absolutely ridiculous. Two strangers having a stilted, silly dialogue instead of going along on their ways.

“No,” she said, “I missed the morning paper. I’ll pick one up and read it in the sandwich shop.”

“A sandwich? Is that all you’re going to eat?”

“Oh, they have more stuff if I want any. There’s a great place on Madison. It’s really much more than just a sandwich shop.”

And still they stood there where the path forked. He seemed to be studying her face, then seemed about to speak, closed his mouth, and at last, did speak. “Would you mind—I mean would you mind if I went along?”

Ellen had, then, a moment of doubt. Wasn’t this, when you came down to it, nothing else but a pickup? On the other hand, where was the harm? You might look at it as an hour’s worth of adventure, a small, insignificant adventure, a little fun.

In front of the restaurant there were a few tables beneath an awning. When they had sat down and given their orders, they fell again into awkward silence until Ellen broke it, saying frankly, “I’m sorry I took so much of your time for nothing that day. You thought I was really going to buy it, didn’t you?”

“You can always hope. And if people look—well, look as if—”

She laughed, interrupting him. “It’s this ring. People see it and naturally assume things. I can’t blame them, though I hate the idea of it.”

“Then why do you wear it?”

“It’s my engagement ring.”

He seemed to be embarrassed, as if he had committed a social blunder, although, as she was well aware, it was she who had brought up the subject.

“He’s working at his law firm’s branch in Paris right now.”

“So you’ll be living in Paris.”

“For a year or two. I’m hoping to learn things there that might add to my job resume when I come back.”

“I spent a year abroad while I was in college. Then I went there again for two summers and wrote an article about how architecture changed when Hausmann rebuilt the city.”

“Was it published?”

“In a small, a very small, magazine. It didn’t amount to much. Hardly original. But someday I’d like to do a book on how to remake a whole city, the way Hausmann did.”

She asked curiously, “Do you like what you’re doing now?”

“I’m saving money for that art gallery and the book I want to do, so I have to like it. In the meantime I’m learning things. I’m out in the real world meeting people. Something interesting happens every day. Sometimes sad, sometimes funny.”

Her glance met his eyes, in which she was startled to see again a lovely glint of gold around the
iris. It was a lively glint, and yet if you were asked, you would say his eyes were thoughtful.

“What happened today? Something funny or sad?”

“I’ll tell you and you can tell me which it is. An old couple came in and walked around for a long time. They were country people, and this was their first trip to New York. He wanted to buy her a present. She said she’d like a picture to hang above the sofa. The one she liked was your snow on the brook. Good judgment. ‘You like it, Mother?’ he said, although quite obviously she was not his mother. And he asked the price. So I told him it was thirty-five. ‘That’s pretty steep,’ he said, ‘but since it’s her birthday, she’s entitled to it.’ And he took out his wallet. ‘Might as well pay cash.’ I saw my colleague’s face grow red with silent laughter. I told the man very gently that there’d been a misunderstanding, that I should have explained he’d need to add some zeros. He was astonished. ‘You mean you’d charge over a thousand dollars for that? Excuse me, sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent, but that’s highway robbery.’ The poor lady was disappointed and
they went out still shaking their heads. So what do you think about that story?”

“It touches my heart. It’s far more sad than funny.”

“Of course it is.”

For some reason the simple anecdote had moved her excessively. She had a curious awareness of sharpened senses: of the afternoon sun’s painful glitter on metal, of ice cubes squirming in her glass, of a passing woman’s anxious face.

“Tell me a funny one,” she said.

So, as if she had given a command, he did. He was a raconteur, an entertainer. They had drunk a second tall glass of iced coffee and the sun had gone behind the buildings across the avenue before they realized that it was late.

“You’re really a humorist,” she told him. “You’re really a wit.”

“Thank you. If I have any wit at all, I get what little I have from my father. Dinnertime was fun when I was a kid. It still is. Which reminds me, I’d better run.”

Ellen went home thinking about Mark Sachs. He was an interesting person, so very alive. She had a feeling that he never wasted a living moment.
Then another thought fled across her mind.
What is he like when he makes love?
She felt unspeakably foolish, and, ashamed of her foolishness, crushed the thought at its birth. Who was he, anyway? She would never see him again.

Another Wednesday arrived. It was very hot, the kind of day when you think of doing nothing but being near water or, if that is not possible, of reading somewhere in the shade. The perfect spot in the park was the place where the walk forked toward the West Side. It was even breezy there, and very quiet.

From time to time, as people passed, Ellen glanced up over the book. Some boys came by on Rollerblades. Two nursemaids pushed baby carriages. An old man scattered crumbs for birds as he walked. Then suddenly, there was Mark Sachs.