The Chaperone (35 page)

He looked at her as if she were crazy, as if nothing she was saying made sense. “Why would your husband help me?”

“Because he owes me.” She understood the truth of this as she said it. “And because he’s kind.” She put her hand to her mouth. She understood how outlandish the idea must sound. She was asking him to take a blind leap, his daughter in tow. He didn’t know Wichita. He didn’t know Alan. And really, he didn’t know her, certainly not well enough to put his fate, his daughter’s fate, in her hands. And she didn’t know him any better. Then again, how well had she known Alan when she’d taken her leap with him? And they had done everything according to custom, with the long courtship and the engagement party, the approval of his family and the Lindquists. With all that carefulness, all that custom, she’d been soundly duped. Didn’t she already know more about Joseph, really? Or at least as much as anyone could?

“You can always come back. If Greta isn’t happy, if you aren’t happy, you can just come back.” She kept her hands at her sides. She wouldn’t touch him now—she didn’t want him to misunderstand. “I’ll give you return train fare. For you and for her. I’ll give it to you before we go, so you’ll have it. You could come back, and you’d be no worse off than you are now.”

She looked at him, waiting. She couldn’t think of what else to say, how else to persuade him. It was arrogant, perhaps, presuming she was what Greta needed. But she thought she could be. And what had the Kaufmanns known? What had they presumed with her? She just wanted a chance to try. If she had to, she would get on her knees and beg.

She heard steps out in the hallway, then the rattle of a doorknob. Her hand went to her throat; the front door wasn’t locked. Louise. She had kept her word. Cora tightened the sash of her robe as she moved quickly around Joseph. She had to get to the front door. She worried that Louise, startled, would scream and scare Greta. That was her only thought.

When she reached the front room, Louise was standing in the open doorway, giving the table a puzzled look.

“Cora.” She was impressively calm. “Who is the little girl under the table?”

When she turned, her eyes went wide, and Cora knew Joseph must have followed her through the kitchen, that Louise was taking them in together, as well as Cora’s robe and undone hair. She looked at Louise and opened her mouth, thinking a helpful phrase would come to her, but nothing was right.

“Cora?”
The black brows moved high.

Cora lifted her chin, her only answer. There was too much to be careful of, too much to complicate just for the sake of her pride. If Joseph said yes, if he and Greta came to Wichita, she would need to come up with a plan, some idea of what she would tell neighbors and friends. She didn’t yet have an exact plan, so it was best to say nothing, to not give any story just yet, even if it meant she had to stand there dumbly while Louise’s expression slowly changed from utter shock to thrilled amusement, the beginning of a howling, ridiculing laugh. That was fine, Cora thought. She could endure it. Withstanding it would be the beginning of her penance, fair punishment for her blindness and all the stupid things she’d said. She would bear the mortification and recover. There might be so much good to come. For now, she at least owed Louise this moment of cackling delight.

PART THREE

“Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress—since I can’t be your wife?” she asked.

The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.

“I want—I want somehow to get away with you into a world where words like that—categories like that—won’t exist. Where we shall be simply two human beings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter.”

She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh. “Oh, my dear—where is that country? Have you ever been there?”

—EDITH WHARTON,
The Age of Innocence

I’m not intimidated by anyone. Everyone is made with two arms, two legs, a stomach and a head. Just think about that.

—JOSEPHINE BAKER

EIGHTEEN

Home. Their train got in just before noon.
At the station, Alan kissed Cora on the cheek, looking at her just long enough for her to see the anxiousness in his eyes. But he was friendly, welcoming Joseph with a handshake and pulling a lollipop out of his vest pocket for Greta. On the way to the car, he asked about the train ride and apologized for the misery of Wichita’s latest heat wave, glancing at the cloudless, expansive sky. “Della has a fan going in every room,” he assured them, as if he were perfectly used to his wife giving him three days’ notice, via telegram, that she would be coming home with guests: in this case, her long-lost brother from New York, as well as his motherless daughter. When they got to the car, Greta was scared to get in—she’d never ridden in one before—so Joseph sat close to her in the back and quietly answered her questions: Yes, this was Wichita; they would soon be at Aunt Cora’s house. Yes, she would have a bed there. The tall man who was driving? That was Aunt Cora’s husband, Uncle Alan. Cora, sitting in the passenger seat, turned to give Joseph what she hoped was a reassuring look—which he appeared to need—before she stole a glance at Alan. Before they left New York, she’d received his terse reply, which said only that he would have Della prepare the boys’ rooms as she requested. Now, as he drove, he continued to make conversation, pointing out the library and city hall to Joseph and Greta, joking that Wichita’s modest skyline probably wasn’t what they were used to. When Joseph spoke, saying it looked like a good town, Alan made no remark about his accent. But Cora had no idea what he was thinking—he had always been so polite. Perhaps he was happy for her, or bewildered. Perhaps he believed the lie.

It was only later, after the luggage was carried into the house and Joseph and Greta were offered food and then shown to their rooms to rest, that Alan asked Cora if he might have a word with her in his study. There was no way to tell by his voice or expression if he was angry or not. She said she would be there in a moment—she needed a glass of water, and did he need one, too? No, he said. But thank you. Even after he shut the heavy door to the hallway and they were seated in the leather chairs on either side of his big desk, he was quiet, clearly waiting for her to speak. She sipped her water and looked at his shelves of law books, the ink blotter on his desk. She didn’t know how to begin. She knew him well, and he knew her. But in regard to so much, they had not had an honest conversation in years.

“So,” he said finally. “A lot happened on this trip.”

She nodded. Upstairs, she could hear footsteps, Greta’s excited voice. Cora guessed she was discovering the little balcony off her room—it was Earle’s old room, his
National Geographic
magazines still stacked on the desk, the pennants of various football teams hanging on the walls. If Joseph and Greta stayed, Cora decided, she would move them up to the third floor, so the boys could have their old rooms when they came home for holidays.

“You’re certain this man is your brother?” Alan asked. “How did you find out?” He frowned. “You don’t look anything alike.”

She turned to the window. Despite the bright afternoon, heavy curtains, almost pulled closed, gave the air the feel of dusk. Years ago, she’d often sneaked into this very room when Alan was away, rummaging through his drawers and papers to find proof of her dark suspicions, proof of Raymond, proof of all she already knew. After so many successful hunts, after she’d found the engraved watch, the poems, she finally stopped coming in here at all, as it made no difference what she found or what she didn’t. They would go on aching with love.

“He’s not my brother,” she told Alan now. “But that’s what we’ll tell everyone.” She said this plainly, with no threat in her voice. But she’d said it as she’d planned, as a statement, not a question. She would not pretend he could tell her no.

Alan stared.

She smiled.

“Oh God, Cora.” He did not smile back.

Clearly, she’d surprised him. As if it were so hard to believe.

“You’re… involved with him?”

She shook her head. “Not now. I was, but not now.”

She did her best to explain. She and Joseph had decided they would be friends, only friends, at least until he got on his feet, until he and Greta weren’t so desperate. Cora had made this stipulation—she had no interest in being, once again, the recipient of a man’s feigned desire, a necessary tool for his survival to be flattered and placated. So she would help without expectation, and without any intimacy that might make their arrangement unseemly, or a humiliation to them both. Once he had a job and savings, he could go, maybe back to New York, and she would wish him well, knowing she’d helped to keep him and his daughter together. That was her first concern.

In any case—she had insisted, and he had agreed—they could only decide what they might be to each other when they were on equal footing. And so on the train home, even while Greta was sleeping, they’d been careful not to touch, not to graze arms or even look at each other for too long. She’d meant what she’d said, and his agreement was real. But even just sitting next to him, she’d felt as if the hairs on her arms were standing up straight, as if reaching for him in spite of her.

“Cora.” Alan’s voice, strained and angry, jarred her thoughts. “What did you tell him?”

When she didn’t answer, he slapped his hand on the desk. She flinched, her smile gone.

“This is your lover? Are you mad? What have you told him about me?”

She was disappointed that he only thought of himself, that he couldn’t think of her at all. But she saw the fear in his eyes.

“Alan. He doesn’t care.”

He shook his head. Even in the dim light, she could actually see the color leave his face, starting with his broad forehead, then his clean-shaven cheeks, his cleft chin.

“He doesn’t, Alan. And he’s got nothing over you. If he… told anyone, which he wouldn’t, we would be exposed. He’s not my brother. We would be charged with lewd cohabitation. We’d all be arrested.”

“Your punishments would hardly equal mine.”

She put her hand on the desk, leaning forward. “He could lose his daughter. And he won’t put you in jeopardy. He understands, Alan. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I just want to give them a chance here. Maybe they won’t be happy. But we want to see. It’s the only way we can know.”

She sat back in her chair. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him the truth, if only to save him the worry. After all, she would have to lie to Howard and Earle. She would need to keep lying to Greta. But she needed Alan’s support, or at least his complicity. Without it, her lie would be more suspicious—no one in Wichita, save Alan, even knew she had come to Kansas as an orphan, or that she’d been born in New York. But if Alan stood by her, if he were the one to tell people the story of her hard beginning and her joy at finding her brother at last, fewer questions would be asked.

“What’s he going to do here? Does he have any money? You expect me to support him?”

“I want you to help him find a job. It might be difficult because of his accent. But you know so many people. You could help him. He’ll take any job. And he’s good with wiring, machinery.”

“What about the girl?”

“I’ll look after her.” Again, she smiled. On the train, Greta had continued to literally cling to her father, but there was a long stretch in Missouri where she and Cora had sat together, counting barns, and after a while, Greta fell asleep with her little blond head on Cora’s lap. She’d swallowed the story whole. Aunt Cora. Her long-lost Aunt Cora who would take them to Kansas and keep her and her papa together.

Alan shook his head. “You’re going to let her keep thinking she’s your niece? You’re going to keep lying to that child?”

“We have to. There’s too much risk if we don’t.”

“How long do you plan to keep this up? What about when Howard and Earle come home? You’re going to lie to them? Your own sons? You’re going to tell them this man is their uncle? Uncle Joseph from Dusseldorf?”

“He’s from Hamburg.” She met his gaze. “And we’ve been lying to our sons for some time. Being truthful now would just confuse them about our marriage, about so many things.”

He looked away. She felt no triumph. There was no pleasure in shaming him. But he had no right to shame her. Didn’t she deserve some kind of happiness? Even if she had to lie? Surely he saw the logic in this. She would make him see.

“I need your help,” she said quietly. “You owe me that. You know you do.”

He frowned. She understood his distress. Even if she could convince him that Joseph would do him no harm, he was certainly considering how their lives, their home, would change. For years now, he’d kept up his charade, requiring her assistance and discretion, and he’d repaid her with caring, with the boys, with pretty clothes, and with the stature of his name. He must have hoped that would always be enough.

“It might be nice to have more people in the house.” She looked down and rubbed her neck, still sore from the long ride on the train. “I was thinking, perhaps we could entertain more.” She waited. “Perhaps… Raymond could come to dinner sometime.”

He stared at her. She stared back. She wasn’t negotiating. She didn’t need to negotiate, and they both knew it. She still had him over a barrel. But she wanted him to understand that any happiness she might gain in this new arrangement would only work in his favor. Really, if she could have this chance, what did she care if Raymond Walker came to dinner? For twenty years now, she’d known he and Alan were still seeing each other, still risking everything for their secret visits. Their letters and gifts to each other had caused her so much pain. But now she felt decidedly neutral, unwilling to judge or impede. For wasn’t she just as determined to risk disgrace, even arrest, to find out if she and Joseph could love each other? It only followed, then, that what she felt for Joseph was what Alan felt for Raymond, what he couldn’t forget or ignore. What had once embittered her now filled her with sympathy, even admiration. She could only hope that if her risks were as great, she, too, would find a way.