The City Below (41 page)

"Good question," he replied, but so coldly her next thought was, Who are you?

At the top of the stairs, without pausing for breath, Squire knocked softly on a closed door. "This is his apartment."

There was a muffled word. Squire pushed the door open. They entered a cozy sitting room with slanted ceilings meeting in a peak A television in the corner was tuned to a baseball game, but the volume was off. In the other corner, on an oval table, sat a stunning flowering plant. Because the blossom was black, it took Joan a moment to realize it was an orchid.

An old man was sitting in a wheelchair, staring blankly at the TV screen. He was cradling something inside his folded arms. He looked over.

Terry took Joan's hand, and they moved forward together. "Hello, Gramps," he said.

The old man smiled. "Hiya, Terry," he said casually, as if they'd last seen each other the night before.

"This is my wife, Joan."

The old man looked at her. The bright flecks in his eyes made him seem youthful. He leaned forward in his chair, as if, for a lady, he would stand. But he did not.

Once his eyes met hers, Joan saw their essential disorientation. "Hello, Mr. Cronin."

"Nice to meet Terry's wife," he said. "I want you to meet mine." He opened his arms to reveal a framed photograph of a pretty young woman. "This is Nell."

Terry saw that it was not Nell, but Flo, his mother. Not Cronin's wife, but daughter. Strangely, he felt a wash of gratitude that Joan did not know.

Joan leaned in front of Terry to kiss the old man on the silver crown of his head.

***

A few minutes later, Joan found Didi in the dining room, another spacious room, with rich blue drapes at the windows, wood-paneled walls, silver candlesticks, mirrors, yet another bouquet giving off a lively scent. The table was set for eight, with stoneware and pewter. At two of the places were highchairs.

Entering, Joan said, "Terry and Nick are going to sit with their grandfather for a little while." Joan had a hand at her breast, pressing, as if short of breath.

Didi was placing napkins. "You're surprised?"

"I didn't know he was..."

"Terry hasn't told you much, has he?"

Before she answered, Joan noticed an impressionist painting above the mantel, an original work that seemed vaguely familiar. Joan drew closer to study it while Didi continued with the napkins.

"This is Manseau," Joan said.

"Yes. No one's ever known to say that before."

In the painting, three half-naked women idled in a shadowy grove, a waterfall spilling behind them against the sharp blue sky.

"The Nabis," Joan said.

"What?"

Joan faced her. "The Nabis. Manseau was a minor member of that school. Followers of Gauguin."

"I didn't know that." Didi laughed. "I just like it."

"Where did you get it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"At a place on Newbury Street."

"Vose?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Not that many galleries in Boston handle paintings like this."

"Oh, I just like the way the colors in the sky match my drapes."

Joan eyed Didi carefully, then smiled. "Right Since you're a woman of no erudition or taste."

Didi laughed again. "Now you've got it. Would you like some wine?"

"Sure."

Didi moved to a side table that held an open bottle. She poured two glasses. "Red okay?"

She pulled chairs back from the table, and they sat. Joan settled in, surprised at how comfortable she felt, and how, all at once, relaxed.

Didi raised her glass. "Here's to you two, you and Terry."

The women sipped.

After a long time Joan said, "Your children are beautiful."

"Thank you."

"They keep you busy."

Didi shrugged. "As you can tell, birth control was Terry's issue, not mine."

"What?"

"He didn't tell you about his famous stand on birth control?" Didi said. "Against the cardinal, what made him leave."

Joan shook her head. "No, no. He didn't. He never..." Her voice drifted off. She had no idea what to say.

Didi drained her glass. "School," she said, pouring again, "is where I knew Terry."

"He told me."

Didi smiled. "Those were the days."

"You were Terry's girlfriend first? Before Nick, I mean."

"Quite a pair, those two. Very different, very different."

"How?"

"I can't speak for Terry now, but back then ... he was hard, but he thought he was soft. Nick is just the opposite. Soft, but he thinks he's hard. So do a lot of other people—think Nick's hard, I mean."

"The kids in your garage."

"For some."

"I don't think of Terry as hard."

"He was supposed to be a priest," Didi said.

"I know."

"Oh, so he
did
tell you."

"Some of it."

"Not about the cardinal and
Humanae Vitae?
"

"The cardinal and what?"

Didi smiled. "You're not a Catholic."

"I was raised Episcopalian."

"The Tory party at prayer." Didi smiled.

Then Joan did too. "We believe in one God—at most."

"And you know about art." Didi glanced at the painting above the fireplace. "'Nabis,' you said."

"Yes. It's the Hebrew word for 'prophet."'

"Profit? Like in money?"

"Like in Jeremiah."

Didi laughed. "It
should
be money for what that dealer charged. I didn't want the thing
that
bad, but Nick insisted." She swallowed some wine, then reached to a silver box for a cigarette. She offered it to Joan, who accepted and produced her gold lighter from her purse. Didi tapped her cigarette on the table, like a man, then leaned across for a light. When she exhaled, leaning back, she said, "They were Jews too."

"Who?"

"The art dealers."

"The Voses? They aren't Jewish."

"They acted like it Real Jews about that price." Didi stared at Joan as if daring her to express her disapproval. But Joan was impassive. Didi made a show then of the pleasure she took in her cigarette. "You know, they make you quit the weed now when you're pregnant As if being an elephant wasn't bad enough."

"You quit smoking while you were pregnant?"

"The last one, yes. As if that will make Jerry perfect. When we started out, I assumed all our kids would be perfect," Didi actually stopped to inhale and blow a set of smoke rings, one small circle penetrating a larger pair. "But they aren't, of course," she added, with no need to mention Jackie by name. Looking directly at Joan, she said, "Our children are not perfect because I'm not perfect, and neither is Nick."

To back away, Joan said, "Well, your house certainly is. Your home is beautiful."

"Thank you."

"Your husband is a florist?"

Didi laughed. "Jesus, why don't you be direct or something. I mean, come right out and ask how much he makes a year, how we can afford the Kitchen Aid or my closetful of Ultrasuede or the"—she threw a hand toward the painting—"Manseau."

"That wasn't what I meant at all. I was thinking of the flowers everywhere, which are so beautiful. That was my point."

Didi took an exceptionally deliberate sip of her wine. "Well, I misunderstood, then. But I won't say I'm sorry. Yes, he if a florist. But more to the point of all this"—she looked around the room, but with a hint of weariness, as if she knew now that the sum of beautiful things is not happiness—"Nick is an importer. We still run the shop on the corner, in his old house, and there are other Kerry Bouquets around town, but mostly now it's Kerry Imports, bulbs from Holland and cut flowers too, wholesale distribution all over New England, that sort of thing." There was an exasperation in Didi's answer, as if she'd had to justify their affluence often.

All at once Joan's question wasn't about Terry's brother, but about this woman, whose self-assertion was the last thing Joan expected. "You," she said, "I'd love to know more about you."

"So would I," Squire said, breezing into the room. "Didi is the riddle of Bunker Hill." He circled the table to stand by his wife, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers. Didi inclined her face ever so slightly toward him.

"What's the riddle?" Joan asked.

"How can she still be so beautiful after all I've dragged her through?"

Didi slapped Squire's thigh, a friendly swat. "You can't kid a kidder, big guy," she said, rising. "The leg of lamb is butterflied, ready for the grill. Get the fire going, will you?"

Didi left the dining room with her glass. Instead of following, Squire reached for a cigarette. He spied Joan's lighter. "May I?"

"Certainly." She picked it up and handed it to him.

After using it, he studied the lighter appreciatively. "Someone gave this to you."

"Yes." Joan was surprised to feel warmth in her cheeks, and she was sure from the intent way he looked at her that he saw them redden.

"Terry?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. It's nice," he said, and he held it out to her. When he put the lighter in her hand, his fingers rested in her palm for a long second. And Joan felt the heat in her face climb to her ears.

She looked down to put the lighter back into her purse.

"If you don't mind my saying so, I never pictured the woman with Terry as so glamorous."

Joan looked up. "Don't be fooled by my false eyelashes, Nick."

"Call me Squire. Everyone calls me Squire."

"Not Terry."

"Terry's our straight arrow. No curves in Terry. As I am sure you know. Nothing warped. Nothing bent."

Joan recognized the invitation to join in the condescension, to say something disloyal. She never would. But she couldn't help thinking, Curves make a man interesting, and yes, my husband lacks them utterly.

Squire brought his face down toward her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. She resisted the impulse to back away, just to see what he was doing. If he could play, so could she.

He said, "Your eyelashes are real." And then he made no effort to disguise it when he dropped his gaze to her breasts: Also real. He straightened. "I have to start a fire," he said, and walked off.

What a jerk, she thought. But when she brought her cigarette to her mouth, her hand shook.

***

At dinner all was chaos for as long as the children remained. Jackie in particular kept things stirred up with loud demands, punctuated by "goddamnit"s and china-rattling blows to the table.

Finally Teresa herded the children away, leaving the adults. Didi and Squire sat at opposite ends of the long table, Joan and Terry faced each other on the sides. All smoked cigarettes and sipped coffee.

"Didi, that was great," Joan said. "I loved the salad especially."

"Julia Child. I never miss her."

Joan stared, uncomprehending.

"On television."

"Oh." Joan glanced across at Terry. By now everything seemed wrong, and even a compliment was doomed to underscore how different they were.

Terry was rimming his cigarette in the ashtray. Joan sensed his sadness.

Didi piped up, "So tell us about
you.
"

Her interest seemed genuine, but Joan could not think what to say.

Didi supplied, "Your father's a diplomat?"

"Foreign Service, yes."

"So you grew up everywhere. That must have been exciting."

"He has served in Washington a lot, so we kept our ties."

"In Virginia."

"Yes."

Squire asked, "Did they approve?"

Joan and Terry exchanged a look before Terry burst out laughing. "Christ, Nick, why not ask something personal?"

"Approve of Terry, you mean?" Joan asked steadily.

"Yes," Squire answered. "Your marriage to Terry. Did your parents approve?"

"Of course they did. Why wouldn't they? He's not black."

Squire, still with that smile, said, "Given your rebellious history, you mean?"

"Given the modern era."

"So they were at your wedding?" Didi asked.

"No. They were in San José. We decided not to wait." Joan looked at Terry. "Right?"

"Right."

"San Jose, California?" Didi asked.

"Costa Rica. Where my dad is posted."

"Oh." Didi grimaced. "What an ignoramus—or is it ignorama" She took a hefty swallow of wine, then looked out the window. "I wonder if it'll rain again?"

A silence fell, and no one broke it for such a long time that it became a powerful revelation of their condition. Joan was desperate to think of something to say, but she couldn't.

When Squire spoke, it did not surprise her, when she brought her eyes up, that he was looking right at her. Which was doubly strange, given what he'd said.

"What?" Joan said. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I just wondered what you'll tell the senator." Only then did he bring his eyes around to Terry. "Your briefing on your reconnaissance trip to Charlestown."

"That's not what this is, Nick. You invited us, remember?"

"But isn't that your job now? Isn't that why Kennedy—?"

Terry abruptly raised his hand, cutting his brother off. "Don't push this, Nick."

"But what are you going to tell him?"

"Maybe that it looks like lynching is making a comeback What next, burning crosses?"

"Lynching?" Squire said. "Hanging a straw dummy beats hanging a person." He looked over at Joan. "Wouldn't you say? Where in Virginia are you from, Joan, anyway?"

"What prompts the question, Nick? Lynching?" Joan smashed her cigarette.

"I guess so, yes."

Determined to keep things light, Joan turned to Didi. "Does he ask whatever pops into his mind?"

Didi nodded, her wine glass hooked in the bridge of her hands. She seemed tipsy now, and exhausted. She said, "He's bad."

"Lynchburg," Squire said. "Didn't I hear someplace you're from Lynchburg?"

"In point of fact, Warren ton."

"But near Lynchburg, right? Horse country? FFV and all that?"

Joan's look toward Terry said, Is that what you tell him?

But Terry was watching the smoke curl around the tip of his cigarette. He said quietly, "I want the effigy down, Nick"

"Hey, Terry, it's not my thing. I agree it's ugly, but..."