The Art Student's War (13 page)

Grace was soon launched on the account of a woman on a streetcar this morning who had mislaid her glasses. It was a story that—no doubt deliberately—was far removed from the events at Chuck’s Chop House. And it had a happy ending: the glasses, folded up in a newspaper, were spotted by a little colored boy. “But the best part of the story? The boy had a patch over one eye.”

“A case of the blind leading the blind,” Bea said.

“It
is
, isn’t it?”

“And finding the way.”

“Yes,” Grace marveled. “And finding the way.”

They had each ordered tuna-fish sandwiches and ice-cream sodas. The sodas were almost obligatory, for Sanders was the establishment—as a sign on the wall proclaimed—where the first ice-cream soda in the world had been concocted, back in 1876.

Sanders, no less than Buttery Creek Park, transported Bea to a domain of potent childhood pleasures. How many times had Grace brought her to one Sanders or another? As a child, Bea used to wear white gloves when she came downtown—the city was such a special place, back then. It remained a special place, of course, but she’d be laughed out of the studio if she appeared in white gloves at the Institute Midwest, where red-bearded Hal Holm lumbered around in overalls and Tatiana Bogoljubov stuffed herself into blouses so tight you could make out the stitching on her brassiere.

It took only a few minutes in Grace’s company before Bea began to feel much-needed stirrings of hope. Surely peace in the family could be restored. This was Grace’s great gift—her ability to convince you that faith must finally prevail over suspicion, goodwill over rancor.

Aunt Grace allowed Bea to finish her sandwich before addressing the only true topic at hand: “The birthday party didn’t work out as we’d figured, did it? I’m so sorry.”

“Why, it isn’t
your
fault.”

“Dear Bea, I’m not sure it’s anybody’s
fault
—I’m not sure fault can be assigned in a case like this.”

“But look who started it all! And the way she wouldn’t, wouldn’t stop. Why, she said unforgivable things!”

“I’m not sure about unforgivable. Often forgiveness isn’t the hardest part, don’t you think? It’s knowing what to do after. How do we go forward?

“That’s the trouble with words,” Aunt Grace went on. “Once they’re said, they make the situation so much more difficult. Maybe your mother for a long time had been thinking the things she said. Maybe they were constantly in her head. But once they’re out, they—they’re—”

In her gentle, uninsistent way, Grace often let a sentence languish. She utterly lacked Mamma’s determination to see a point to its termination. Bea concluded the sentence: “They change reality.” Here was an irony, to be sure, since Bea was often teased—especially by Maggie—for not completing sentences. But in various ways, some easily identifiable and some not, Bea was a different person with her aunt than with anyone else.

“Yes, they change reality, don’t they?”

“Yesterday, Mamma said—” But Bea found she couldn’t repeat the craziest of all words her mother had ever uttered:
If Grace and I can only both recognize that she has ruined my life, there is no reason in the world the two of us cannot get along
. Bea, too, let a sentence drop.

“Your uncle Dennis believes we need to let things cool off. Avoid all getting together anytime soon. I don’t know whether that’s a medical opinion, or simple instinct. But I’m afraid I agree.”

Bea only nodded. Her eyes were stinging.

“But”—Aunt Grace went on—“you and I can get together, can’t we, dear? Without telling your mother?” Bea nodded rapidly, up and down.

“I don’t mean to encourage deception, and I’d understand fully if you don’t think we should, but I did want to see you to
day
. Oh, Bea, I wanted so much to see you!

“I don’t mean to criticize your mother, but I needed to tell you she’s
very wrong
about one thing she said. Bea, your father is not in love with me. I repeat: your father is not in love with me. Oh, I think I’d know! It does happen occasionally, an infatuation. I’ll sense that somebody, usually some patient or friend of Dennis’s, one of the other doctors, maybe—somebody takes a keen fancy to me. At eighteen, you may think that’s very unlikely for a woman just turned forty, but I’ll tell you something: these things do happen. And I’ll tell you something more: if your father were in love with me, and he’s not, but
if
he were, it’s nothing I would ever, ever encourage.”

“Oh, I know
that …”

“If I could make your mother understand one fact, one fact only, it’s that I love Dennis—yes, I really do—and yes I did once, to my everlasting shame, yes I did once, when I first met him, I
did
once say he looked like a frog. Count on your mother to remember. It’s his glasses, making his eyes look so big,
you
know. Anyway, if I could take back any remark in my life, I think it would be that.

“And let me pause, dear, to tell you a little story about your uncle. The day after the birthday party, I cried all day. I cried so hard my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and I couldn’t eat the soup he finally brought me. He had to feed me—I’m not exaggerating—feed me with a spoon, like one of his patients. And while I’m lying in bed having cried my eyes out, he walks up to the mirror over the vanity table, he peers into it, and what does he say? He says, ‘I think I’m quite a handsome frog.’ Do you see what I’m saying? I felt so
awful
about his having heard those words, and
then he ups and says, ‘I think I’m quite a handsome frog.’” There were tears in Aunt Grace’s eyes. “I ask you—how could I not love that man?”

She went on: “It’s the strangest thing you’ll ever do, I bet—getting married. And I should know. I did it twice.” A little smile. “There’s no way of knowing what you’re in for. How could you know what you’re in for, when you say to someone, Yes, I’ll share my entire life with you? Bea, maybe someday we’ll have this conversation when you’re an old married lady like me. And I hope you too will be able to say—”

To say what? Grace interrupted herself: “Oh good heavens, I know that man and he’s coming over. He’s a Turk. It was his daughter. She was one of Dennis’s patients. A hundred years ago. Oh, what
is
his name?”

A little man with steely gray hair materialized beside their table. He looked overjoyed. He talked stumblingly but rapidly in accented English—he appeared to be shaking with excitement. He wore a huge gold watch and a gold tie. “It is the doctor’s wife!” he cried.

“Hello—oh hello. So nice to see you again.” Aunt Grace was still scrambling after the man’s name.

“I want you to see!” he said. “I want you to see! This is my Melek. Doesn’t she look big and healthy!”

The wrist with the enormous gold watch made a flourishing sweep toward someone behind him: a homely but indeed quite big and healthy-looking girl of sixteen or so. She was taller than her father. And quite plump. “You tell the doctor how healthy! Not like before, huh?” The glittering little man laughed buoyantly.

“I certainly will. I’ll—do that tonight.”

“The other doctor said influenza. Dr. Poppleton, he said appendicitis. He was right. He saved her life—my only child. He is a very great man.”

“Well, thank you,” Aunt Grace replied.

So sharply did the little man peer at Bea, Aunt Grace felt compelled to offer introductions—always an awkward business when a name is missing. Not surprisingly, she pulled it off dexterously. “If I am the doctor’s wife, this is the doctor’s niece, Bea Paradiso.”

“Paradiso?” he said. “Italian name?”

“Yes,” Bea said.

“Turk,” he said, and thumped himself hard on the chest.

“Yes.”

“Two seas to the right. The Adriatic first, the Aegean next,” he said, and laughed ebulliently.

“I’ve never been to Italy,” Bea said.

“You come first to Turkey!” the man cried. “First to Turkey! I invite you! Real invitation! The doctor’s niece, you are a princess there!”

“That sounds very nice.”

He stayed a few minutes by their table, laughing excitedly, again and again calling attention to his daughter’s flourishing condition. When he finally departed, Aunt Grace said, “Oh I just
know
I’ll think of his name in a minute. He’s a Christian, incidentally—a Christian Turk, and there can’t be many of those. Now what were we talking about?”

“Uncle Dennis, I guess. You wished Mamma could understand—”

“If I’d paid for it,” Aunt Grace interrupted, “could I have arranged a more vivid demonstration? In walks a man whose name I don’t even remember, who steps forward to tell me my husband is a great man. But we were talking about loving one’s husband. And looks—we were talking about looks. You see, Bea, I had a good-looking husband once—good-looking in the conventional sense. I don’t know how much you know about Michael Cullers.”

“Not so much.” But perhaps more than she should. “A little.”

“Well, Mike was a fast one, running with a fast crowd. He was too young to get married. And maybe I was, too. Those friends of his made me nervous, the way they
drank
. Mike could party all night and wake up whistling, but I couldn’t live that way.

“Well, you may know he formed an attachment, with his secretary. He was very distraught when we learned I couldn’t have children; I sometimes think he took it even harder than I did. Oh, Mike wasn’t a
bad
man. He just wasn’t a terribly
good
man. And your uncle Dennis? He’s the best man I’ve ever met.”

Once more, abruptly, Aunt Grace’s eyes reddened. This little lunchtime reunion was continually verging on tears. They were near wrecks, the two of them.

“Oh I know,” Bea said. “He’s a saint.”

“Keep your saints, Bea. And your Greek gods, too, for that matter—I married one once, and once was enough. But Dennis is the best
man
I’ve ever known. Your mother seems to feel I sacrificed a lot in marrying Dennis but I sacrificed exactly nothing.
Dennis
made the sacrifices. He knew I couldn’t have children.
You
understand what a wonderful father he would have been.”

“Of course. Why he’s the best
uncle
in the world.” But something was still rankling Bea, who said, “I think you’re being too kind, when you call it nobody’s fault.”

“Is that what I said? I guess what I meant was, the deeper you look, the harder to assign any blame. You scarcely knew Daddy, he died so young, but he certainly didn’t ease your mother’s way.
He
wasn’t such a bad man either, but the chemistry was all wrong between those two. He couldn’t leave poor Sylvia alone. She always disappointed him somehow. He was forever criticizing. So if you could go back, in one of Dennis’s time machines, you might conclude it was all Daddy’s fault, but if you went back still further, you’d probably turn up someone giving him the problems
he
had.”

“She didn’t have to say what she said to you.”

“Oh I’m all right. At least
now
. It’s poor Dennis I’m sorriest for. Summer’s here, and you know how he loved summer Saturdays, fishing with your father, taking you kids out for milk shakes.”

“We can still see him. Even if Mamma doesn’t care to come along.”

Aunt Grace paused. Something more than a mere tremor—a jolting spasm—passed over her face. She spoke very carefully: “I think it would upset your mother if she knew the rest of you were seeing us. Your uncle feels strongly that your mother needs to rest, that all those—those tensions we saw on Saturday need a rest.”

“She wouldn’t have to know. If we saw you. Nobody needs to say.”

“But what are we going to do, Bea? Propose to Stevie and Edith that they lie to their mother? Oh, seeing you is one thing. Look at you, you’re almost a grown woman. But the others … Is that the lesson we want to teach? Can you honestly see your uncle pursuing that line?”

“But things will calm down! Things will come right again and everything will be how it was.”

“Precisely. That’s everyone’s precise hope.”

“But what are you saying?
What are you saying?”
Bea felt an inner slithering from chest to stomach—a downward scrambling of pure panic. “Are you telling me I can’t see you when I want to?”

Aunt Grace reached over, laid a hand upon her hand. “Oh, darling. I’m not sure what I’m saying. Only, we’ll see less of each other. Until things come right.”

“But what if they don’t? What if this is just the way she’ll be now? What are you saying?”

Aunt Grace’s eyes tightened. “I suppose I’m saying two contradictory things. That I cannot encourage you to regularly lie to your mother. And that, if you ask to see me, Bea? I can’t refuse you.” One more pause. “Yusuf Caglayangil,” she said.

“What?”

“The Turk’s name.” Aunt Grace’s memory, opening at last, offered up a spilling profusion. “He owns a business called Turk’s Trucks. He goes by Joe, or Joseph, but he actually spells it Y-U-S-U-F. And Melek? His daughter’s name? It means angel. My husband saved the life of his angel.”

“I’m out of cigarettes,” Papa said, which was a little surprising. In his apportioned way, he rarely ran out of essentials. “Bia, you come with me,” he said, which was more surprising still.

When Papa asked you to go somewhere, you went. Bea threw a sweater over her shoulders and was out the door. She didn’t like to keep her father waiting.

“All right now,” he said approvingly, and turned left rather than right, though the closest place for cigarettes, Pukszta’s, lay to the right.

Papa wasn’t completely out of cigarettes. He lit one now, as they walked along. It was a cool, fragrant August night, hazy but clear enough to let a few stars shine through the leaves. Soon it would be fall.

Where were they headed? Bea decided it would be all right to ask. “Where are we going?”

“Olsson’s.”

The logical place, given their direction. “Olsson’s,” Bea repeated and, sensing her father’s wish that she talk, she said, “One of the boys in my class, his name is Ronny Olsson, and you know what? His father owns Olsson’s Drugs.”