The Chameleon (33 page)

“How was the weather in the South Pacific? You've got terrific color.”

“Fine, Father. A lot like Nassau, only the humidity and heat were much more intense, since it's closer to the equator.”

Claire was stupefied. With all the entanglements swirling around them, and an absence of years, father and son chose to discuss the weather. Lifting herself up, Claire rose to the moment.

“England was beautiful. You could see crocuses blooming in the cracks the bombs made. The world is going to return to normal.” And for a moment she thought it just might.

“Oh, Claire, it's
such
a shame. Sara's had
two
visits from the tooth fairy since you've been abroad, and you've missed them both.”

“Look, Daddy! The tooth fairy left me two silver dollars!” Sara waved a little Cartier coin purse in the air.

Claire sat forward, throwing a sideways glance at Ophelia. “My goodness, that's a generous trade. Where I've just come from, little girls are so hungry they could live off one silver dollar for a whole month.”

“Oh, Claire, don't scare Sara with your little ragamuffin stories. This is a
happy
time, and tonight at dinner everyone can tell their what-I'm-thankful-for story. Save it for then.” Ophelia could still deliver an insult without moving her lips. “Oh, Harry, did I tell you the Mortimers are coming?”

Harry, home for just three days now, was relieved that everything was just as it used to be. Every soldier wanted to come home to the exact same picture he'd carried around in his pocket since the day he left. The war was really over, and now they could all pick up where they had left off.

When Harry grinned at Claire, anticipating the night ahead, she was surprised that she had forgotten about his dimples.

It wasn't until she had missed her first period and suffered two weeks of morning queasiness that Claire decided she had better finally reconsummate her marriage. She stood sweating in the bathroom of their new house, flushing the toilet for the third time.

Claire was pregnant, and she didn't need to kill a warren of rabbits to know. As she pulled a brush through her hair, she counted not to one hundred but back to that last night on the ship. Harrison had wanted her with such fervor and her desires had dulled her brain so entirely that neither one of them had taken precautions. When she'd left for Europe she had no intentions of sleeping with Harrison and therefore no need for her diaphragm. And once they had begun to make love, it was he who had taken care to protect them. Somehow that arrangement let her feel less culpable, as if unplanned sex was nobody's fault.

The porthole had been open. The misty salt air had swept into the stateroom and they inhaled it like divers drawing in their last breath of oxygen before plunging into the sea. Harrison had held on to that spot on her neck and her breasts with such ferocity that he'd unintentionally bruised her. She in turn, wanting to cling to him forever, had dug her fingernails into his back. If the sounds that escaped her throat had not been drowned out by the high winds and waves hitting the ship, some unsuspecting steward might have come to their rescue. When Harrison entered her, he thrust deeper than he had ever gone before; Claire felt as if he had entered her very womb.

Now it appeared he had.

Holding a damp washcloth to her temples, she forced herself to consider her options. How could she be so selfish? She wouldn't be. She reached for her pink peignoir and pinched her cheeks to match. Claire was suddenly going to recover from the “episode of shyness” she had felt “about being intimate with a man again after such a long time,” her proffered excuse for not performing her marital duties. If she didn't put her finger in the dam now, the domestic flood that would follow would destroy them all.

Squaring her shoulders, she resolutely entered their bedroom, decorated with Ophelia-ordered separate beds, one of the few of her mother-in-law's interfering favors Claire had been grateful for. Harry, long since accustomed to reading himself to sleep, was propped up on his pillows, his knees supporting Gibbon's
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
She cleared her throat “Why don't I go downstairs and bring us a bottle of champagne? You know, we've never properly celebrated our reunion.”

Harry let Gibbon and the Romans fall from his fingers. “You mean you're feeling better?” His voice was boyish.

“I think it's about time we start building our own empire.”

Claire left to fetch the champagne as Harry ran to the bathroom to gargle with mouthwash and slap Aqua Velva on his beardless face, uncertain that he could rise to the occasion. There wasn't a doubt in Claire's mind. Every motion and caress that had been instinctive and natural with Harrison she now mechanically applied to satisfying her real husband. Harry was hers again, no questions asked. When she demurely announced her pregnancy a few weeks later, practically all of the Harrisons were pleased as could be.

Like a true chameleon, Claire reinvented herself. She laid aside her Lucy Mercer lessons along with her backless dresses and pearls and concentrated, in her tweed skirts and Belgian loafers, on Sara's lessons and running the house Ophelia had built—like clockwork. Even if the house wasn't to her taste, it was at least their own, and the duck pond and fifty yards of alléed grape arbor provided some degree of separation from Ophelia. After the birth of William Henry Harrison VI—nicknamed “Six,” to her displeasure—Claire evolved yet again into something she had never been before: the good mother. This time there was no discussion that nannies would be kept at bay, and when Ophelia tried her formerly successful chicaneries at weaning Six from his mother's breast, Claire simply laid down the law. Her mother-in-law would hold no more domain over her baby or her breasts.

She competently—if not exactly cheerfully—presided over her husband's business dinners, keeping a pad, like the duchess of Windsor, at her table place to record the likes and dislikes of her guests. And like the duchess, the water in her vases was clear as crystal and the conversation lively. The young Harry Harrisons always served an interesting variety of both guests and vegetables. Although Claire would never leave home before Six had been tucked in and she'd told Sara her favorite bedtime story, she somehow managed to accompany Harry to at least half of the events he begged her to attend. Uninterested in his friends and wishing to be back home, she nonetheless engaged in after-dinner games of charades with the same group of cronies her husband had known since childhood and who practically had their own private sign language. She disliked going with him to dances where the couples changed partners with each song, the same songs she'd hummed sexily into Harrison's ear. The only Stork that interested her these days was not the swanky club in Manhattan but the one who had brought Claire her beautiful baby boy with his father's smile. To shield herself from Ophelia's interference, she kept a revolving schedule of her own houseguests, making sure Mother or one of the Aunties was always present and available for baby-sitting duties. And although Harry might gripe at his office on 51 Wall or on the back nine of the country club about his wife's frosty disinterest in the bedroom, he couldn't complain about the meticulous way his home was run or Claire's bottomless love for his children.

It was Sunday night and between Aunties. Harry, Claire, Sara, and baby Six were having an early dinner with Grandmère and Grandfather Harrison. Just before blueberry pie, Six cried for his supper. Claire quietly picked him up and strode into the morning room, shutting the door behind her. It was quiet in here, and private. Her back to the terrace window, she opened her blouse and brought Six's plum-red mouth to her nipple. She sang a melody in his ear and softly rocked him as he sucked milk from her breast. Claire didn't hear the glass doors open behind her and didn't know how long Harrison had stood behind them watching before she felt his presence.

“Forgive me, Claire. I didn't mean to intrude.”

Claire turned around, inviting him into their space with her warm smile. They hadn't been alone for months, but he was never out of her daydreams.

“Look how he eats, Harrison. Look how strong he's getting!” He was standing directly in front of mother and child.

“Claire, I'm deeply indebted to you for giving us this grandson to carry on the name.”

Suddenly the prewar promise she had made to him and then all the other promises they'd whispered to each other rose like a dream before her.

“Oh, Harrison.” She smiled gently. “Haven't you figured it out? He's not your grandson.”

And while she patted Six's sweet mouth with a diaper, Harrison fell to his knees and sobbed.

“How
could
you?” Harry was furious as he stormed into her room. “I've just found out. Why have you deceived me?”

Claire tried to swallow, but her reflexes were frozen. A dozen domestic dramas flashed before her, the kind that ended with emergency rooms and police reports. Although Harry had always been even-tempered by nature, alcohol and low self-esteem were a frightening combination that if in the hands of a pharmacist would carry a warning label:
Do not mix.

Harry's hazel eyes were a whirlpool of anger, his head and neck beet-red. In his fist was a crumpled piece of paper. How could he have found out? While she and Harrison had erred in Europe, they'd been nothing but correct in Charlotte Hall. She would never allow the secrets she and Harrison had shared to hurt another member of this family.

“Would you care to explain what you are doing? You're supposed to be my wife, not some coed.” He threw Claire's second-semester grade card across the room at her.

Her heart settled back into her chest “I'm only attending college.” Her voice quivered. His violence, directed at her over this little deception, was way out of proportion. It was only deserving if he'd uncovered her real betrayal.

“Claire, I'm truly disappointed in you. Your me-first attitude is unforgivable. I can't understand you. And taking Commie courses to boot Majoring in social reform! Aren't the Harrisons generous enough for your new liberal ideals?”

Claire bit her lip as Harry went on.

“You have no warmth, no passion anymore. You've become a … a …”

“A Harrison?”

“That's uncalled for. I was thinking more of a trouser-wearing do-gooder—like Eleanor. The Tuxedo Park Eleanor, that's what you've become. You've made me a laughingstock.” The worst of the storm was over. His voice settled into a whine. “You're beautiful and sexy, Claire. Not that you ever let me near you.”

Claire could smell the expensive gin on his breath as he drew nearer.

“I guess I'm just not clever enough to know which Claire you are on any given day. Are you going to be Mrs. Benjamin Spock in the nursery or Eleanor Roosevelt with your social reforms?” He took a big gulp from his martini. “What happened to the sweet, giving girl I married?”

“I thought you'd be proud. This family has raised my social conscience. And why shouldn't I be educated? It's only fitting for someone in my position to—”

“You mean in
my
position.” It was evident the Tanqueray was feeding Harry's mean side. “Mother
told
me you wouldn't be up to the position. Too bad I didn't get a receipt when I picked you out at Marshall Field's. I understand they have an excellent merchandise exchange policy.”

Cruel and angry when drunk,
the warning should read, Claire thought. As she turned back to her social studies book, shaking quietly, she was struck by how much Harry resembled his mother. They shared the same shallow eyes.

She wasn't surprised by his outburst, only saddened: She already knew she had married the wrong Harrison.

By painstaking months and inches, Claire was able to pull Sara a little bit closer, but not entirely, to her. In contrast, though, little Sara found her younger brother irresistible. Like everyone else, she was drawn to the blue-eyed, tow-headed child whose cherub's face could warm even one of Ophelia's rooms and take the chill off Harry's black moods. Six's cheeks, lit from within, were blushed like summer peaches, and his lips limned so perfectly it was as if Raphael had painted them himself. Claire could only imagine that since she and Harrison had gazed upon so many
Rinascimento
Madonnas with child during their Italian sojourn that the spirit of one of the tender boy beauties had jumped off the wood panel to be reincarnated in Tuxedo Park. Anyone meeting Six for the first time invariably remarked that this child must be a child born of love. With his Bermuda blue eyes and plump, pinchable thighs, he was a born charmer. Even the cold-hearted denizens of New York society, who spent their lives indulging their taste for beauty, melted before this child possessed of a calm, quiet knowing and clear, lucid eyes.

While other children went through awkward stages, when Six got his first two staggered teeth everyone delighted in his jack-o’-lantern grin. True, when he sat for his first haircut, the curls falling away to the floor, he no longer resembled a golden-haloed angel; however, he grew overnight into a more special version of the Harrison Man. Sara gaily retrieved one of the silky wheat-colored clippings from the barber's chair and playfully held it over her mouth like a mustache as Six laughed. When the fun was over she tucked her treasure away into her locket.

And so Six became the touchstone for the beleaguered Harrison family. No longer were they reduced to talking about the weather. Now the inebriated husband, his sour mother, the sorrowful grandfather, and the good mother and her moody daughter found something in common besides nor'easters and hot spells.

Sunday suppers at Ophelia's became bearable. Before Six, there were embarrassed silences between sounds of soup being slurped and the clink of forks and knives being correctly placed on the right side of bone china. Now there were the sounds of laughter and proprietary claims as to from whom Six had inherited which stellar characteristic.

“I don't know
when
I've seen a child who resembles me more.” Ophelia was convinced that Six took after the Fisks and Vanderbilts, to whom she was related.